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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28346667">International Relation(ship)s</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/jubilee_line/pseuds/jubilee_line'>jubilee_line</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Minecraft (Video Game), Red White &amp; Royal Blue - Casey McQuiston, Video Blogging RPF</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Royalty, Angst, Drunken Confessions, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, Exploring Sexuality, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Forbidden Love, George Wilbur and Phil are all part of the british royal family, Hidden Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Love Confessions, M/M, Prince!GeorgeNotFound, Secret Relationship, Sexuality Crisis, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, US Politics are fixed, background karlnap, background skephalo, but with mcytbers, first son of the united states!dream, niki and dream are siblings, past internalised homophobia, rw&amp;rb, soft</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 20:21:17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>29,482</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28346667</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/jubilee_line/pseuds/jubilee_line</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Although life as the First Son Of The United States was admittedly strange, Clayton was pretty well suited to the role; his charisma worked perfectly on the old prestigious characters he had to charm, him, his sister, Niki, and best friend Floris were basically the USA Poster Children and he was on the track to become the youngest ever Congressman, but altercation with his (self-professed) arch-enemy, His Royal Highness Prince George, leads to a quick cover-up forcing them to fake a friendship. When he realises the Prince isn't all he made him out to be, feelings are sparked and a dangerous game has been ignited.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Clay | Dream &amp; Darryl Noveschosch, Clay | Dream &amp; Floris | Fundy, Clay | Dream &amp; GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF), Clay | Dream &amp; Sapnap (Video Blogging RPF), Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF), Eret &amp; Floris | Fundy, GeorgeNotFound &amp; Wilbur Soot, Karl Jacobs/Sapnap, Niki | Nihachu &amp; Wilbur Soot, Wilbur Soot &amp; Phil Watson, Wilbur Soot &amp; Technoblade &amp; TommyInnit &amp; Phil Watson, Zak Ahmed/Darryl Noveschosch</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>218</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>518</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Introduction and Disclaimer</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>This fic is inspired by "Red, White &amp; Royal Blue" by Casey McQuiston, and was previously known as "Yellow, White &amp; Royal Blue", but has been rewritten since then.</p><p>As always, I do not ship any of the creators within this fic in real life, this is all fiction, and in no way am I trying to force these relationships or personalities onto the creators.</p><p>This will follow the rough storyline of RW&amp;RB, but despite this, it is all my writing; I will never take any of McQuiston's writing and pass it off as my own. Some areas I will probably follow a little closer to the book (such as the election, since I'm British and don't know that much about American politics), and others will stray much further from the book's plot!</p><p>With all that said, on to the good stuff!</p><p>Here is the character list, primarily for those who have read RW&amp;RB. You do not need to have read RW&amp;RB to understand this though. It is a fantastic book that I would highly recommend, but the plot and characters will make sense without any prior knowledge of either the book or the content creators!</p><p>I have not, however, just taken the book and replaced the original names with the names of content creators. Quite a few of the characters in this fic will have different personality traits to their corresponding characters and some will play a different part in the fic than they did in the RW&amp;RB.</p><p>Alex/Clayton Claremont-Diaz (Dream)</p><p>June/Niki Claremont-Diaz (Nihachu)</p><p>Prince Henry/George Fox-Mountcristen-Winsor (GeorgeNotFound)</p><p>Prince Beatrice/William Fox-Mountcristen-Winsor (Wilbur Soot)</p><p>Prince Phillip Fox Mountcristen-Winsor (Ph1lza)</p><p>Nora/Floris Holleran (Fundy)</p><p>Percy 'Pez'/Alastair 'Eret' Blackwell (The_Eret)</p><p>Shaan/Zak Srivastava (Skeppy)</p><p>Zahra/Darryl Bankston (BadBoyHalo)</p><p>Rafael Luna/Johnathon Schlatt (JSchlatt)</p><p>Cassius 'Cash'/Dave (Technoblade)</p><p> </p><p>Other Notable Characters:</p><p>Ellen Claremont</p><p>Amy Chen</p><p>Jeffery Richards</p><p>Martha/Kristin Fox Mountcristen-Winsor</p><p>Adrian Diaz</p><p>Liam/Nick Armstrong (Sapnap)</p><p>Karl Jacobs</p><p>With cameos from various other content creators, including Ranboo, Tommyinnit and Tubbo</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>"The Royal Wedding, you idiot, the Royal Wedding? You know, the one that has been in every single newspaper since last year? Don't tell me you'd forgotten about it." Niki raised her eyebrow as she spoke, handing Clay her phone.</p><p>"It's this weekend?</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It's quite funny, actually, when you think of the White House, it is likely that the first images that enter your mind are those of rigidity, formality, perfect paint-work along with meticulously made curtains, not a stitch out of line, flooring made of the most expensive wood money can buy. Clay thought this too for quite a while, even for the first weeks he spent residing in the world-renowned building it felt more like a museum than where he was going to live. It didn't quite feel like home until one Friday evening when he discovered on his late-night amble that the bottom-left corner of the second sheet of wallpaper from the window wasn’t fully adhered to the chipped ivory paint it was meant to smother.</p><p> </p><p>What was so notable about this, you may be asking. Well, I’ll tell you, dear reader, it was not that the taut-pulled illusion of perfection had been shattered; he had figured that out on the day he moved in, distracting himself with the endlessly fascinating cracked trails in the titanium-white paint on the ceiling of his room whilst trying to assemble the best possible answer to an essay. Nor was it a metaphor, showing him some sort of Disney moral that even the strongest familial bonds become unstuck under the pressure that presidency can bring. In fact, it was nothing of the sort. It was what hid underneath that truly eased him into life as the First Son:</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Just don’t let them find out. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>The bedrooms generally reserved for the First Family were the East and West on the second floor. First designed as one, quite frankly, enormous state bedroom for some important European, it can be assumed that whomever decided to split it into two separate rooms had the same view as most would; even for royalty, it was a little excessive. Clay had the East, Niki the West, and in what Clay viewed as some sort of twisted irony, it was the same configuration as their old house in Florida, the key to which lay permanently in the centre of his chest and, along with the chain from which it hung, was always hidden from view. It was personal, only for him to see, to feel, and he wouldn’t have it any other way. Whenever he felt stressed, the cool metal would draw him out of his anxious state and back to reality, imprinting the sharp edges of the key to his chest as he held it there. It wasn’t just some meaningless accessory, it was a good luck charm filled with sentiment, a reminder of the boy he once was.</p><p> </p><p>Back in Florida, their rooms were smaller than the bathrooms in the White House, Clay's constantly filling up with increasing piles of schoolwork and lacrosse gear; Niki's walls always bearing magazine-cutouts of her current celebrity crush, hiding the hideous teal colour she’d insisted on when she was 7 and regretted every moment since. Their rooms in the White House, like them, were rather different. Clay's room was calculated and neat, every manilla folder and ring-binder having its own respective place, the previously-satin pink walls (Sasha Obama's choice) now sporting a muted mint green. There were always piles of textbooks, books he read for pleasure (which were often still academically focused), and notepads crammed with pages of meticulously detailed notes. Niki's room belonged to a Pinterest board with the level of interior decoration that one would aspire to have but know deep down that they would never reach. On her windowsill were empty bottles of her favourite soda, now used as vessels for the plants she cared so dearly for. Her guitars hung on the wall above her bed, and next to them were shelves filled with trinkets from her past.</p><p> </p><p>They were aware that it was unusual that they, the president's children, still lived in the White House - normally once they reached 18 it was time to move out and, unsurprisingly, never back in, but Clay had started at Georgetown University around the same time that his mother was sworn in so it only made sense for him to take residency at the White House rather than wasting money on a flat down the road. Niki still had another year of high school, but after that, as a result of a multitude of coincidences, she ended up at Georgetown too. </p><p> </p><p>So there he was, three years into being the First Son Of The United States (or FSOTUS for short. Writing the full title was too much of a hassle for him and the press both), and three years into calling the White House the closest thing to home, studying away. He had known full well that he was not going to be the youngest-ever person in congress without working long and hard for quite a while now, and he was drawn out of his pondering by the door swinging open. In came Niki, coffees in hand.</p><p> </p><p>“Americano, splash of milk?” </p><p> </p><p>“When have I ever got your order wrong?” She asked with amusement, rolling her eyes as she settled on the armchair tucked away in the corner of his room. “So, how was your day?” she asked as she scrolled through her phone idly, sipping at her coffee (a latte, one teaspoon of sugar).</p><p> </p><p>“Not bad, I’ve been working on this essay for ages though, I just can’t get the wording right.” He sighed, turning his attention away from the laptop and rubbing his light-strained eyes as they thanked him for a break from the screen.</p><p> </p><p>“What’s it about?” </p><p> </p><p>“Oh it’s on the Buck vs Bell case - the laws permitting the sterilisation of the disabled, so awful, but very interesting.” Clay was glad he enjoyed the law course he was studying; he knew how sick he would be of university if he didn’t. He was itching to get into politics, but being the best in his cohort at school was his current aim. “I don’t think my brain is going to let me run on caffeine much longer,” he added, an afterthought that he would probably dismiss when his brain lost the capacity to think about more than one thing, as brains tend to do when you are severely sleep-deprived.</p><p> </p><p>“That’s probably a good thing, Clay. Studies are important but you need to take care of your body.” Niki chided, and the words held truth. Work, whether it was essays, revision, or even helping his mother out with presidential stuff always took priority for him, and that often meant that sleep was sacrificed as a result.</p><p> </p><p>“Okay, <em> Mom </em>! I’m literally older than you, don’t tell me what to do.”</p><p> </p><p>“You don’t act like it sometimes.” She sighed, suppressing giggles. “Look, I was gonna be on the front page of the Daily Mail for, like, the 3rd time this week.” She turned her phone towards him, zooming in on the photo of her with 'Mystery Man'. "I mean, I can't say I am surprised that they put the wedding on the front page."</p><p> </p><p>"Wedding?" Clay asked halfheartedly, turning his focus back at his assignment.</p><p> </p><p>"Yeah, the <em> Wedding </em>?” She frowned, jumping up and stumbling over to Clay’s side. “Jeez, those essays have really fried your brain.”</p><p> </p><p>“What do you mean? Am I meant to know whose wedding it is? I haven’t had the chance to go on Twitter today."</p><p> </p><p>"The Royal Wedding, you idiot, the <em> Royal wedding </em>? You know, the one that has been in every single newspaper since last year? Don't tell me you've forgotten about it." Niki raised her eyebrows as she spoke, handing Clay her phone; The screen displayed a photo of the nondescript blond British heir with his equally nondescript brunette fiancée, both smiling blandly along with the headline ‘PRINCE PHILLIP SAYS I DO!’ in big bold letters.</p><p> </p><p>"It's<em> this weekend </em>?" He groaned, rolling his head back, cringing slightly at the loud pops that sounded as a consequence of being hunched over all day.</p><p> </p><p>"Clay, we leave <em> tomorrow </em>. How could you forget?"</p><p> </p><p>"I don't know, talking to a bunch of stuck-up Europeans and pretending to be happy for little Mr. Prince Charming's brother doesn't exactly fall high on my priority list."</p><p> </p><p>"Well, either way, you better be ready. You know Mom will have your head if you screw this one up."</p><p> </p><p>"I know, I know." Clay sighed dramatically.</p><p> </p><p>"I still haven't decided on my dress...this one, or that one?" Niki asked, taking her phone back to show the two photos. The first was a figure-hugging, blush pink dress, boasting intricate lacy floral patterns and falling just below the knee; the second, a flowy lilac dress, cinched in at the waist with a ribbon belt.</p><p> </p><p>"The pink lace one. This is England we're talking about. Now go talk to Floris or something, I’ve got to finish this essay.” He turned away from her, watching in the corner of his eye as she turned her back and headed towards the door.</p><p> </p><p>"Whatever, just be ready to leave at 9!" She shouted behind her as she shut the door.</p><p> </p><p>Clay didn’t think that the thrill of private aviation would ever wear off on him, and honestly, it was what he was most excited about. Despite having travelled quite frequently in the past three years where it had been a viable option, it was still surreal that, after never having been on a plane, let alone left the country before, he was now cruising three-thousand-and-something feet in the air, lounging on a cream-leather chair whilst he snacked on salted almonds. He let his mind wander as he stared out of the window, eyes fixed on the vast expanse of Atlantic sea below them, glistening in the strong midday sun, each wave catching the light like it was winking at him. He tried his best to think of something exciting that could happen in the next twenty four hours, a Shakespearian romance, some Dicken’s-like English adventure perhaps, but every scenario was brought back to what would most likely be the case - sitting in a church for a few hours and then being paraded around to talk to ancient Lords and Dukes.</p><p> </p><p>Clay drew his attention back to the plane; Floris Holleran, grandson of Vice-President Mike Holleran, part of the so-called White House Trio and most importantly, Clay's best (and arguably only) friend sat opposite him, pouring over some article on his laptop, Niki resting her head on his shoulder. They were an unlikely trio, but a trio nonetheless, and the closest thing the USA had to royalty. With Clay's charms and genius, Floris's computer-like brain, and, in all honesty, Niki's grasp on normalcy, they were a good fit.</p><p> </p><p>In the row behind the pair was Amy, military veteran and Secret Service agent, flicking through a dog-eared novel, and Technoblade, ex-Navy SEAL, Secret Service agent, rumoured to have committed quite a few murders. No-one knew why he was called Technoblade. No-one would <em>ever</em> dare to ask. His pastel pink hair may have made him seem soft to a poor innocent soul who didn’t know him, but he made sure that anyone who commented on it would be able to joke about it once, and, along with the monotone voice and practically unrivaled skills, it was all part of his image. He had a bulletproof-titanium sewing kit open as he darned a button back onto his jacket, using a needle Clay was sure he had seen stabbed into someone's kneecap.</p><p> </p><p>The flight went unsurprisingly smoothly, touching down on the other side of the Atlantic a good 7 hours after takeoff. The energy in London was simply electric, roads were crammed with street parties of jovial citizens waving mini-union jacks and eating generous slices of Victoria sponge cake off of paper plates. Street sellers had dropped their usual attire and donned trinkets plastered with the smiling faces of Prince Phillip and his fiancee, Kristin, and before Clay even had a moment to consider how weird the whole situation was, he was seated in a cathedral as the ceremony started.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>There he was, on the floor of the Reception of probably the most important event of the entire year, the fucking Prince of England, winded, caged in by his arms which were currently the only things preventing him from falling flat on the ground and absolutely crushing Prince George, and all whilst some of the most distinguished people in the world looked on.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>
  <span>The wedding seemed to drag on for centuries. It wasn’t that Clay didn’t care for marriage: the actual service was nice… perhaps in the same way that one might describe a piece of literature or a film was nice. There was nothing awful about it and the content of the speeches was actually quite pleasant, it was just incredibly bland. Neither spoke the words with a fraction of the passion they had been written with, and Clay suspected that it was unlikely that either had written them in the first place. Quite frankly, it seemed to him more like a business transaction than an act of love: a wealthy Lady born into generational nobility marrying a prince? How </span>
  <em>
    <span>mundane</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Clay just hoped to God that someone shot him before he was forced to live through a similar experience; he wanted </span>
  <em>
    <span>passion</span>
  </em>
  <span>, </span>
  <em>
    <span>love</span>
  </em>
  <span>, something much more </span>
  <em>
    <span>Shakespearean</span>
  </em>
  <span> and off his mind went wandering, the steady drone of the priest making him drowsy. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>After the ‘service’ part of the wedding was done (which Clay was more than thankful for; his eyelids felt like they had bricks tied to each one, weighing them down, and his mind was flitting between consciousness and the ever-attractive prospect of sleep) he was finally ushered into some fancy ballroom within Buckingham Palace. He was seated at a table between Floris and Niki; the only two people he intended on communicating with that evening. </span>
  <em>
    <span>At least the food is good</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Clay huffed internally as they nibbled on caviar blinis and smoked-salmon sandwiches whilst making mindless chatter about the event.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"I wonder how many historic milestones have happened in this room?" Clay scoffed as he looked around the grandiose room with its golden trimmings, artistic masterpieces and fancy lights which quite frankly looked like upside-down jellyfish to him. On a table in the corner stood a pyramid of perfectly balanced champagne flutes, family heirlooms, no doubt, holding the most sumptuous wine known to man. They stole the light emitted from the chandeliers, glistening in the same way the waves catch the last of the sun’s rays at twilight. Sitting opposite, the biggest cake he'd ever seen. He'd heard that it had cost them £75,000. Seventy-five thousand. </span>
  <em>
    <span>That could pay off, like, half a student debt.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"It's probably just been ball after ball after ball... I doubt </span>
  <em>
    <span>anything</span>
  </em>
  <span> has ever happened here." Niki said, holding in a yawn.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"No, I bet something has. What if this is where Henry VIII decided to behead yet another of his six wives!" Clay contended ostentatiously with a rather horrendous English accent, pretending to swoon, which he quickly stopped as he noticed the dirty look he was being sent from some Scottish Viscount.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Unlikely. The palace was built in the early 1700s I think. Henry VIII lived in the 16th Century at castles like Hampton Court." Floris told him with a laugh, brushing a couple strands of white-flecked brown hair from where they lay obstructing his vision.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"</span>
  <em>
    <span>Whatever</span>
  </em>
  <span>." Clay pouted, causing the other two to burst into giggles, quickly stifled when Niki shushed them, remembering that they were in the presence of royalty and acting like primary school students probably wouldn't be the best for their image. Not only would it reflect poorly on </span>
  <em>
    <span>them</span>
  </em>
  <span>, it could consequently make the entire United States look bad seeing as there weren’t exactly many Lords or Barons from America attending the wedding, so they made up most of the USA’s representation, and as that ran through Clay’s mind, he decided that it might be smarter to adopt a slightly more professional manner. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>As the evening went on, they moved from their residence at the table to a quiet corner in an attempt to interact with as few people as possible. Clay occasionally would steal glances at the Prince, each making him angrier, and consequently he drank more to stifle it. The champagne was refreshing, cooling the heat that flared up each time the Prince caught his eye, the bubbles burning the back of his throat and causing his eyes to water, but he didn’t mind.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His first encounter with the Prince was back when he was 11 or 12. It wasn’t a physical run-in, more the first time he gave him more than a passing thought. One of the newspaper articles Niki had deemed suitable for her wall bore a photo of a young boy of a similar age to Clay, mid tennis swing. It must have been a candid, there was no way a smile like that was forced, and since he had been enraptured in a strange sort of way; he would sneak into her room just to look at the boy, an aspiration of what life could be… or that’s what he told himself. Back then, he understood why his millions of teenage fans were so obsessed with him; he embodied talent, perfection, manners - the type of boy you wouldn't be afraid to bring back to meet your parents. He was skilled at everything he did, eloquently spoken, so incredibly charming and something about that sparked something in Clay’s mind. All that changed, however, when he met him for the first time though. The illusion was shattered and he could see through to the lacklustre, stuck up boy behind it, same as all the other royals. Now he felt quite the opposite to how he did before, just a look brought him unrivalled hatred, it was </span>
  <em>
    <span>sickening</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>After Clay had drunk 3 glasses of champagne (that was how he had started to keep track of the evening, it seemed just as apt a method as any other due to how many times he unfortunately caught sight of Prince George) when a rather greasy-looking man approached them, or rather, Niki, the other two never being far enough from her side for it not to be considered approaching the whole trio. His walk was stifled and brittle, his posture hunched over as the walking stick clacked in time with his steps. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Miss Claremont-Diaz." He greeted her with an insufferably posh accent. Clay flashed her a grin from where he was situated behind the man and she sent him back the most irate look she could get away with without the man in front of her noticing. It was essentially a twitch of her eyebrows, but Clay still caught it, hiding a grin. "His Royal Highness Prince George Fox-Mountcristen-Winsor is wondering whether you would give him the honours of accompanying him for a dance."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"She would love to dance with him," Clay butted in with a mischievous smile, never wanting to miss an opportunity to annoy his sister in true older brother fashion. "In fact, she's been wanting to all night, haven't you Niki?"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"I- Yes of course." She offered, attempting as much certainty as she could muster, tucking a strand of blonde hair behind her ear with a polite smile as she was led off, wiping her hand subtly on the side of her dress once the greasy man let go of it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He watched as the Prince took her hand with a gentle smile that was quite frankly </span>
  <em>
    <span>nauseating </span>
  </em>
  <span>to Clay, telling her something that made her expression move from somewhere between nervous and irritated to a genuine grin before they started waltzing. He was leading her steps, and it was clear he had more experience but it was as if he was trying, and succeeding, to make Niki look graceful and dignified. Clay knew her inside out and the subtle giggles she let out at a wrong step of hers or encouraging whispers from George, they were not forced. And Clay simply could not bear it. The </span>
  <em>
    <span>audacity</span>
  </em>
  <span> of him to bewitch even </span>
  <em>
    <span>his own sister? </span>
  </em>
  <span>How </span>
  <em>
    <span>dare</span>
  </em>
  <span> he.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"</span>
  <em>
    <span>His Royal Highness Prince George Fox-Mountcristen-Winsor</span>
  </em>
  <span>." Clay mocked, disgust poisoning each word. "If you added any more words, you could call it an </span>
  <em>
    <span>essay</span>
  </em>
  <span>." Floris sent him an amused look as they both turned to watch Niki, Clay throwing his head back to down the remaining champagne in his glass. "Look at him, not one step out of place. While I was growing up in suburban Florida he was learning how to </span>
  <em>
    <span>waltz</span>
  </em>
  <span>. I fucking hate that people compare me to him. We could not be </span>
  <em>
    <span>more different</span>
  </em>
  <span>." His voice lowered to a whisper for the last part, but the intensity remained as the volume decreased. He had become acutely aware that he was surrounded by people who would most likely die for His Royal Highness so shouting about his utter hatred for the man was probably not the smartest thing to do.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"OK, but he's not exactly the worst person to be compared to. I mean, he's got a pretty pristine reputation and the public </span>
  <em>
    <span>adore</span>
  </em>
  <span> him." Floris reluctantly added, his slight dutch accent poking through on certain words and becoming increasingly evident when compared to the Brits surrounding them. He, on the other hand, went to a boarding school in the Netherlands. On a scholarship, admittedly, but still. It wasn't quite the generic underfunded public school that Clay had attended, but he could never hate Floris for that. Prince George, however…</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"I can't bear to </span>
  <em>
    <span>look</span>
  </em>
  <span> at him any longer. I'm going to get a drink." Dream huffed, slamming down the champagne flute he had been clutching with white knuckles onto the table next to him, probably a little too hard considering the confused glances from nearby Lords.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Another?"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Yes, another. I need it."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Ok, just, now is not the time to get shit-face drunk. You </span>
  <em>
    <span>know</span>
  </em>
  <span> how pissed your Mom would be if you screwed up their relationship with the UK." Floris sighed. He had a bad feeling about this, but found it difficult to say no to Clay, as most did. His words were always beguiling, inadvertently convincing the individual he was talking to into thinking he was right. Whether that was for better or for worse, it was unsure. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Oh come on now, I've only had a </span>
  <em>
    <span>few</span>
  </em>
  <span>." Clay scoffed, rolling his eyes playfully. "I'll be back in a second!"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And with that, he left. He weaved his way around dancing Barons and chattering Ladies, flashing the occasional smile to whoever caught his eye. He was stopped a couple times to have a quick catch-up with some foreign political figures whom he had conversed with at previous events, but he knew talking politics whilst drunk was never a good idea, so he managed to excuse himself as quickly as he could. By the time he had made it to the drinks, it seemed Niki's dance had concluded and she was practically glued to Floris's hip once again. As he turned away from the champagne fountain he was met with an all-too-familiar face. Big brown doe eyes, an annoyingly symmetrical face, perfectly trimmed hair... it made him want to gag.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Done seducing my sister?" He asked, flashing the necessary wide, albeit sarcastic, smile.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Clayton! I wondered when I was going to get the </span>
  <em>
    <span>pleasure</span>
  </em>
  <span>." George practically sighed through his pearly-white grin, glancing down to fix a button on his perfectly-fitting prussian blue suit jacket, tailor made, no doubt.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Here in the flesh. Don't look so excited to see me."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"You have made my day, I guarantee."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"I wish I could say the same... although, it was quite amusing to see Niki practically towering over you whilst you danced, that did make me smile," Clay smirked aggravatingly, wanting so badly just to draw even just the tiniest bit of something out of George that wasn’t polite smiles and charming words.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Well, unfortunately, I was not blessed with the genes for height that the two of you have." George replied, his words showed no malice compared to Clay's hostile remark which only infuriated him more.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Don't you ever get </span>
  <em>
    <span>tired</span>
  </em>
  <span> of all this?" He practically spat, gesturing wildly in the Prince's general direction.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Of what? I am afraid you are going to have to be a little more specific."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Pretending you're above literally </span>
  <em>
    <span>everyone</span>
  </em>
  <span> and </span>
  <em>
    <span>everything</span>
  </em>
  <span>. You just cruise out here like it's an average Saturday night whilst everyone </span>
  <em>
    <span>obsesses</span>
  </em>
  <span> over you. The paparazzi act like one photo could make their whole career and you just act like it doesn't bother you and that you don't like the attention, which is clearly a lie, since you just danced with the First goddamn Daughter Of The United fucking States. Aren't you just tired of it?" He rambled with a venomous voice as he took a step closer. He was practically towering over the shorter Prince, ensuring that no-one else could hear, and the table behind him guaranteed that there was no escape.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"I...I would like to hope I am a little more complicated than that." George gathered his thoughts, trying to respond to the rather surprising outburst. His voice was tired and Clay was equal parts shocked and infuriated that he hadn’t managed to elicit a reaction other than exhaustion. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Really?" Clay shot back, tipping his head back and gulping down the rest of his champagne. The surprise was short lived, but the fury only grew. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Oh... you're drunk. I think now might be the time to lay off the champagne." George told him truthfully as he grabbed the hand reaching for yet another glass.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Don't tell me what to do." He yanked his hand out of the Prince's grasp, noting with surprise that the skin was raw and rough around his fingers, small, crescent-shaped scaps printed on each knuckle, but it barely fazed him, he was too far gone to think about anything else except the rage egging him on. "I bet you just can't handle the fact that I am not completely and utterly </span>
  <em>
    <span>enraptured</span>
  </em>
  <span> by you like the rest of them, huh?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"I don't know if you've noticed, Clayton, but it wasn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>me</span>
  </em>
  <span> who initiated this lovely exchange of ours... in fact, I don't think I have </span>
  <em>
    <span>once</span>
  </em>
  <span> come to talk to you, it always seems to be </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span>, coming over to </span>
  <em>
    <span>me</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Maybe you should reconsider your stance, from my point of view, it does seem like you're just as </span>
  <em>
    <span>enraptured</span>
  </em>
  <span> as anyone else." George muttered quickly, before adjusting his demeanour and pulling out that Prince Charming smile once again while Clay stood there, stuttering. The words stabbed into his mind, each sharp through the fog that was his drunken stupor, but the twisted little fucked-up overly-competitive part of him was </span>
  <em>
    <span>elated</span>
  </em>
  <span> at the fact that he had riled him up, made him </span>
  <em>
    <span>mad</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p> </p><p><span>"Have a nice evening, Clayton," He chuckled at Clay, who always had something to say, speechless, but there was no humour in his voice, only something between spitefulness and weariness. Clay’s stubborn mind, however,  wouldn't dream of letting the Prince have the last word. He needed to say, do </span><em><span>something</span></em><span>. As the shorter turned to leave, he grabbed his shoulder roughly to face him again, surprised at the feeling of bone under his calloused hands. </span><em><span>I guess he really is weaker than he looks</span></em><span>.</span> <span>Clay was ready to spit out some half-arsed drunk quip but what he didn't anticipate was quite how hard he had yanked, especially considering how much shorter the Prince was than him. Prince George grabbed Clay’s arms, his tight grip causing his fingers to dig into the muscle of his biceps. It didn't seem malicious, more an attempt to steady himself, but, as inebriated as he was, it was enough to cause Clay to lose his balance too. The pair stumbled forward, Clay felt his feet lose their place and the last thing he remembered before he fell was ‘</span><em><span>If I’m going down, there is no way in hell he's not coming with me</span></em><span>’.</span></p><p> </p><p>
  <span>With the rather ceremonious sound of the bang of a table followed by a hundred top-quality crystal family-heirloom champagne flutes shattering, the symphony of laughter, chatter and celebration came to a halt. The stares of every single royal, politician, countess, lord and god-knows-what other important person were directed at Clay, on the floor, George below him, and a littering of hundreds of thousands of pounds worth of glassware behind them.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His first instinct was to laugh. Of course, there was probably nothing that could make the situation worse than laughing, but it truly was a comical sight. There he was, on the floor of the Reception of probably the most important event of the entire year, the fucking Prince of England, winded, caged in by his arms which were currently the only things preventing him from falling flat on the ground and absolutely crushing Prince George, and all as some of the most distinguished people in the world looked on. As his forearms lay bruised and flat on the ground, using all of his strength to keep himself up, hot white shocks of pain were emanating from his right hand. Within it were shards of glass sharper than paring knives, embedded deep within his fingers and his palm. He tried his very best to wiggle his fingers and the mind-numbing pain it caused was reduced by the sheer relief that he hadn’t cut any major tendons; he could have cried with how happy he was at the fact that his fingers still </span>
  <em>
    <span>worked</span>
  </em>
  <span>. The throbbing ache had distracted him from his current predicament, and honestly, some of it was minimised by just the sight of the oh-so-perfect Prince with a cut on his forehead. It was long and thin, only shallow - but an imperfection nonetheless. Just the thrill of the discovery that he was, in fact, human and not some kind of bland, polite, handsome robot or something made him suppress a sort of twisted smile.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The only thing that drew him out of his delirious state of shock and pain was the clicking of a camera; there was no getting out of this one.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>How are you all enjoying it so far? I like to hope that my writing style has improved since YW&amp;RB, and that is partially thanks to the wonderful Lee @putthycat who is beta reading for me! She also has a royalty AU DNF fic called The Bodyguard, which I am beta reading, and honestly I can say it is fantastic! If you like this, I can guarantee you will like The Bodyguard more, so if you are looking for something else to read I implore you to head on over there (leave a comment and tell them I sent you whilst you're there!), you won't regret it!<br/>I hope everyone has had a wonderful day!<br/>Artio &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>I hate you."</p><p>"The feeling is mutual."</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Clay got absolutely </span>
  <em>
    <span>murdered</span>
  </em>
  <span> when he got back. Figuratively of course - it wouldn't bode well for his mother's image if the nationally beloved First Son Of The United States died, especially if she wanted to be re-elected. Which she did. Very much so. Darryl was giving him a full and proper scolding whilst his mother sat next to him and watched, chipping in occasionally. Clay wasn’t surprised that Darryl was far more annoyed than his mom, she was the sort of person to keep a cool head in every situation, and he was pretty certain she was more concerned about his injured hand than the whole fiasco, </span>
  <em>
    <span>and</span>
  </em>
  <span> she had a plan, so she simply didn’t feel the need to be stressed. Darryl, on the other hand, was due a heart attack any day now. Having worked with their family for the past 3 years, every clumsy mistake or miswording that Clay had made, of which there were many, would send him into a spiral of stress, not stopping until the ‘crisis’ had been averted. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I can’t believe you did that, Clay. You </span>
  <em>
    <span>know</span>
  </em>
  <span> not to drink more than a glass at important events…” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Clay couldn’t help but zone out. He was well aware of what he had done, he had already thought about all the possible ways it could affect his image, the Prince’s image, the relationship between the UK and the US, newspapers, rumours… and he was off overthinking it all again. He knew that hearing it from another person wasn’t going to make a difference to how he was planning on acting, what he was going to say, to do, he was sure he had it all sorted out until he actually focused on what Darryl was saying,</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“... and so to stop anyone thinking that you two muffins have some sort of rivalry going on, you two are gonna meet up again and make it seem like you have been best friends for a long time, okay?”  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry, </span>
  <em>
    <span>what</span>
  </em>
  <span>?!” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Clay, please actually listen to Darryl, he isn’t just talking for the sake of it.” His mom chimed in, shifting her chair closer to take a figurative place in the conversation again.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He mumbled a quick apology to the pair of them before turning his focus back to the matter at hand: “I have to meet up with him and- and be </span>
  <em>
    <span>friendly</span>
  </em>
  <span>? After what </span>
  <em>
    <span>he</span>
  </em>
  <span> did?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I know you hate him but it takes two to have an argument Clay, and seeing as you were the one who was drunk, I’d be willing to bet that you started it.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Clay only groaned in response, burying his head in his hands, the backs of which lay flush against the table as the lecture continued.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Before he could even comprehend what had been happening between exams at university, bold news headlines and paparazzi bombardments he found himself back in the private jet, once again soaring across the Atlantic Ocean for slightly less favourable reasons this time.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Remind me what I'm doing again?" Clay asked with a sigh as they disembarked the plane, his eyes adjusting to the monochrome that was cold, drizzly London.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"You're gonna pretend that you and George have been buddies for years and that it was some kinda little fallout, okay you muffin? Once you’re both done with the appearances you can head back home tomorrow."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Do I </span>
  <em>
    <span>have</span>
  </em>
  <span> to?" He whined like a little child, his eyes wide as he looked down at the shorter agent, who just gave him a sympathetic look. Unfortunately for Clay, puppy dog eyes don’t exactly work on someone who’s half a foot shorter than you, especially not when you’re twenty-one and well built at that.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Yes, you do! You </span>
  <em>
    <span>did</span>
  </em>
  <span> get yourself into this mess, Clay. Now go and grab your luggage and make sure you know everything about the Prince." Darryl instructed as they were met by what seemed to be the palace's equivalent of a ‘Darryl’ at the airport, before signing a foot-thick NDA and being shepherded into a car.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Clay had been forced to learn about George in order to effectively pull off the plan. It seemed obvious, but it was, in Clay’s humble opinion, </span>
  <em>
    <span>a pain in the ass</span>
  </em>
  <span>. In order to maintain public relations, the decision-makers through their correspondence across the pond decided that the best way to minimise the damage caused by the "incident" at the wedding would be to tell the press that they had been best friends all along, and this was just some petty spat stemming from a long and happy friendship. So, he had spent the past 7 hours on the plane studying the long list of facts about the Prince he had been given, and presumably, he had been doing the same. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>As expected, everything about the Prince was incredibly dull. Some of it he already knew; he had two older brothers; William and Phillip, his mother was Princess Catherine, he has a first class degree from Oxford University in Earth Sciences (</span>
  <em>
    <span>Why the hell would you want to study rocks</span>
  </em>
  <span>? Clay rolled his eyes at the major which, from his standpoint, seemed incredibly useless.). Some of the other things in the rather lengthy document he did not already know and had no interest in learning - the Prince was probably the person that he wanted to spend the </span>
  <em>
    <span>least</span>
  </em>
  <span> time thinking about, yet here he was, reading a Google Doc dedicated to him. ‘He is an avid reader’, ‘his favourite book being </span>
  <em>
    <span>Hard Times</span>
  </em>
  <span> by Dickens’, which only made him hate the Prince more by the way, because who in their right mind's favourite book is Dickens? He’s a great writer and Clay did like to appreciate the classics, but </span>
  <em>
    <span>favourite</span>
  </em>
  <span> book? and </span>
  <em>
    <span>Hard Times</span>
  </em>
  <span> at that? Yawn. He used to have multiple dogs and has always had a love for animals, he can play the violin, his favourite dinner is toad in the hole- </span>
  <em>
    <span>what the fuck is a toad in the hole?</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Clay, being dramatic as he was, was convinced that simply reading it through would send him to sleep. Fortunately it did not, although after an hour when he was pretty sure he knew enough he had a quick nap, the list long forgotten and every boring fact expelled to the deepest corners of his mind, despite the fact that they would probably aid him in his conquest for rest.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He ran over the facts in his head as he travelled to Kensington Palace. He decided that the best way to tackle it would be to treat it like a test; he could pretend it wasn’t about the most annoying little shit in the whole of the UK, but rather just any old facts he would need to know for some quiz. That, at least, allowed him the luxury of reading it without getting quite as irked (Clay liked to think that he wasn’t short tempered. Everyone else disagreed.). The man they met at the airport, who introduced himself with a firm handshake his name (Zak) and not much else, briefly went over what they were doing; a photo shoot, TV appearance, charity work and just generally looking chummy. Clay was surprised to hear that he had an American accent but didn't comment on it - he had fucked up enough in the past week and didn't want to go around making enemies with the royalty's employees by somehow saying the wrong thing.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When they pulled up to their destination, in what felt like a blur Clay was directed out of the car, given about 20 instructions at once as someone told him they were taking his luggage somewhere, someone else telling him where to go, and how to be and before he knew it he was standing in a driveway far bigger than the White House's, the imposing Palace looming over them as his 'enemy' approached him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Clayton!" Prince George managed with as much glee as he could muster (which as expected, was very little and would not convince anyone that they so much as tolerated each other).</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Your Royal Highness! How are you doing my </span>
  <em>
    <span>friend</span>
  </em>
  <span>!" Clay said with a small mock-bow and an almost menacingly large grin. He could tell that it was taking all of George’s willpower not to just turn around and leave, and honestly, he took pleasure in it. The prick deserved to be uncomfortable. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"I'm glad to see you're sober this time at least."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Only for </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Georgie." He smiled disingenuously, figuring that if he was going to put on this act he might as well have some fun with it. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Don't call me Georgie." He muttered under his breath, something more than the standard iration flashed across his face for barely a second but Clay caught it. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Good.</span>
  </em>
  <span> He thought smugly. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I’m getting under his skin.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Well don't just stand there, gimme a hug </span>
  <em>
    <span>Georgie</span>
  </em>
  <span>!" Clay approached him, knowing there was very little the Prince could do without it looking suspicious to the man taking photos about 5 metres away from them, and to the majority of the palace staff who were not aware of the facade. He had no choice but to stand there, not wanting to get any closer to Clay than he had to, Clay closing the space between them anyway, enjoying how it made him squirm. He pulled the smaller into a big hug, wrapping his arms tightly around his back. He could feel the Prince’s heart racing, and the thought ran through his head that, </span>
  <em>
    <span>perhaps he had underestimated quite how nervous the prince was,</span>
  </em>
  <span> and he didn’t quite know how he felt about that. The Prince just stood there awkwardly for a second before hesitantly wrapping an arm loosely around his torso.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"What the </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck</span>
  </em>
  <span> are you doing?" George whispered sharply. Clay’s smile morphed into one of genuinity for a second. That was the first time he had heard the Prince swear.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Putting on a show, you know, like we're meant to."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"I </span>
  <em>
    <span>hate</span>
  </em>
  <span> you."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"The feeling is mutual." Clay shrugged, and with that they pulled apart. He sent an unconvinced glance to Darryl who gave him a thumbs up, and that only egged his little performance on. "I would rather </span>
  <em>
    <span>die</span>
  </em>
  <span> than have to spend two days with you."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"I'm sure that could be arranged." George shrugged, laughing as if he had said something hilarious and sending Clay an expectant look to push him to do the same.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Oh but I don't think old Granny of yours would be very happy with that. That would taint your reputation - </span>
  <em>
    <span>their </span>
  </em>
  <span>reputation." He sniggered between over-the-top chuckles.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"It would be worth it though if it meant I never had to speak to you again." George shot back as they pulled away.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"You know, it never fails to surprise me how short you are. I’m guessing they don’t publish </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span> in the teen magazines you feature in each week. Doubt all your fans would be as </span>
  <em>
    <span>obsessed</span>
  </em>
  <span> with a 5 foot midget." The pair were led over to god-knows-where, still having to keep up the friendly act as the photographer watched on.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"I'm average height, for fucks sake. You're just </span>
  <em>
    <span>freakishly</span>
  </em>
  <span> tall." </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"And the girls </span>
  <em>
    <span>love</span>
  </em>
  <span> it, don’t they?" He smirked, letting out a very fake laugh as he quickly glanced over to the photographer, abruptly stopping the moment he saw the camera lowered.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"I don’t exactly have a </span>
  <em>
    <span>lack</span>
  </em>
  <span> of fans either, do I?" George shot back. Dream loved taunting the prince, but if he managed to visibly rile him up too? That was even better.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"They only want you to become royalty, though. They aren’t in love with </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span>, just </span>
  <em>
    <span>infatuated</span>
  </em>
  <span> with the idea of a ‘</span>
  <em>
    <span>well spoken, polite British prince</span>
  </em>
  <span>’." Clay put on a posh English accent, and the fact that it was awful only made it more hilarious to him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Jesus fucking Christ- the </span>
  <em>
    <span>photo shoot</span>
  </em>
  <span> is over,</span>
  <em>
    <span> your fun</span>
  </em>
  <span> is over, just </span>
  <em>
    <span>leave me alone</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” George attempted to sound hostile, but only sounded exasperated, and for a moment Clay almost felt bad for some reason. But only for a second.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>This is probably the most I've changed a chapter from YW&amp;RB so far, and I think I like how it came out! I decided to make them be enemies for longer, it was moving too far. What do you guys think about that? Let me know if you preferred it the other way (if you read it before of course!)</p><p>Arti :)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>"Clay, can I ask you a favour?” Zak hesitated before speaking, and Clay was very much confused as to where this was going, but of course, agreed enthusiastically. “Would you mind maybe trying to talk to George once or twice outside the- um scheduled activities?"</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Quite unsurprisingly Clay had always thought that the Palace reminded him of the White House. Not in the way one might enter a cosy cottage and feel immediately at a home-away-from-home, in fact, quite the opposite; they shared the same feeling of holding so much history and yet no character at all.. Both felt like parade floats, in the way they were so incredibly lavish and over the top on the outside, to the public eye, but when you step inside it just feels so </span>
  <em>
    <span>hollow.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Touching down in the UK, meeting the prince, it all made this so much more real to him. </span>
  <em>
    <span>This is actually happening… and I’ve gotta pull it off. </span>
  </em>
  <span>He rattled through the list of things he had learned about George as he was led through the remarkable building for reassurance. It was a rather strange quirk that he had had for as long as he could remember, but for some reason, rattling off facts and figures in his head did help to sedate his mind. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Mother? Princess Catherine, oldest daughter of the queen, first princess to obtain a doctorate. Father? Charles Fox, nationally-loved actor, passed in 2015. Age? 23. Best friend? Alastair Blackwell, nicknamed Eret, Heir to the biotech giant Blackwell Pharmaceuticals, met at Eton. Went to Oxford University. No pets, but loves animals..</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"...Clayton? Clay?" Zak, who was leading him to his room for the night, dragged him from his thoughts as he continued walking on autopilot. His mind was foggy, the only clarity being the facts he ran over and over like some sort of prayer or chat, and it felt like his legs were a separate entity to his mind, moving on their own. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Oh, I'm so sorry!" He realised the other man had stopped walking, and was standing still in a doorway, a couple metres behind, a true testament to how little he had been paying attention. “I zoned out for a second there!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"It's no problem at all!" Zak chuckled with a slight smile. "You'll be sleeping in here."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Clay thanked him with a polite smile, turning to his room, so very ready to throw himself on the bed and not move for the next few hours, but he was stopped by a firm hand on his shoulder.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Clay, can I ask you a favour?” Zak hesitated before speaking, and Clay was very much confused as to where this was going, but of course, agreed enthusiastically. “Would you mind maybe trying to talk to George once or twice outside the- um scheduled activities?"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Clay's face dropped into an expression which practically screamed 'do I have to?' </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Come on, it will make this whole act seem much more genuine, and you </span>
  <em>
    <span>know</span>
  </em>
  <span> how much trouble he will be in - you both will be in - if we can’t pull this off.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Fine. I'll try my best." Clay sighed, dubious, as he headed into the grandiose bedroom, far too much gold to be considered tasteful by his means, his battered old sports duffel bag full of clothes sitting next to the meticulously made bed. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"You know... the Prince - George - he doesn't exactly- well... he doesn't exactly have many friends." Zak broke the awkward silence with a tentative voice.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Oh </span>
  <em>
    <span>god,</span>
  </em>
  <span> I know where this is going-"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"-Clay, from what I've heard, you don't exactly have a massive social life either."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"I don't have time for friends- I don’t need friends…” Clay shot back in a rather hilariously pragmatic way, “-wait who told you that?"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"That doesn't matter!" Zak quickly dismissed somewhat defensively, causing Clay to raise an eyebrow and wonder what else someone had told him. "What I was </span>
  <em>
    <span>saying</span>
  </em>
  <span> was, it doesn't seem like the worst idea in the world for you to actually </span>
  <em>
    <span>maybe</span>
  </em>
  <span> have a try at this whole ‘friends’ thing with Prince George."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"You know what, it actually kinda does sound like the worst idea in the world to me-"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Why do I even </span>
  <em>
    <span>bother</span>
  </em>
  <span>," Zak muttered under his breath.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“The guy’s a stuffy, stuck up prince with his head up his ass the whole time. That’s not exactly </span>
  <em>
    <span>my kind of friend</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” Clay snapped, regretting it instantly at the slightly hurt look on Zak’s face. </span>
  <em>
    <span>That was a mistake. That was a big mistake. I should not have said that.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I know you two don’t exactly… get along, but he is actually a nice kid. Seriously. When I came to work here, I was fully expecting him to be… what you just said… but he’s not. He’s really not.” Clay still looked skeptical, but also apologetic. Zak was sweet, and his words felt honest but he still had a hard time believing it. “Just... give it a thought okay?"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Okay, I will… but this is for the press, for </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span> and </span>
  <em>
    <span>Darryl</span>
  </em>
  <span> and my </span>
  <em>
    <span>Mom,</span>
  </em>
  <span> not for </span>
  <em>
    <span>him</span>
  </em>
  <span>, alright?"  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Thank you, Clay. I know you don’t like him, but maybe this will be good for you both, huh?” Zak gave him a genuine smile, turning to leave. Once the door shut behind him, Clay threw himself onto the bed with a sigh. In any other situation he would have been reluctant to crinkle the perfectly crisp white sheets which must have taken </span>
  <em>
    <span>hours</span>
  </em>
  <span> to iron and fit to the bed, but he was, quite frankly, far too tired to care.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He reached into his pocket, idly logging into his phone and turning it off of ‘silent’ to be met with, he probably should have expected, a bombardment of messages from Floris and Niki. To be fair, the vast majority were just the pair chatting away as usual in the trio's group chat, but a fair few from both were bugging him for every little detail so far. This was standard, they always told each other everything. They knew every little secret about the others, every quirk pointing towards if one of them was uncomfortable, or lying, or perhaps when a joke was taken a little too far, and that's why they were inseparably close. It </span>
  <em>
    <span>did</span>
  </em>
  <span> mean that he had been spammed with messages demanding him to spill, however, so without a second thought he called Floris, knowing that out of the two he was most likely to pick up, and they were probably near each other anyway. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"So how’s England?" Floris's voice sounded tinny through the phone, but the familiarity of both hearing it and seeing his face brought Clay comfort either way. He was sitting on the comfy leather sofa in the lounge area of the White House, Niki on the armchair beside it, Clay's normal spot painfully empty.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"How do you </span>
  <em>
    <span>think</span>
  </em>
  <span>? It's all boring and grey like it is every time we come over." Clay answered glumly, flipping his camera and bringing it over to the window to show the lavish green gardens surrounding the palace, framed with the dark, imposing clouds looming over London, threatening to spill over and rain any second now. "That's probably all I can show you though without getting arrested for something or another. I know the White House is bad, but this is </span>
  <em>
    <span>literally</span>
  </em>
  <span> like being in a museum... and I'll actually get in deep shit if I break something here."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Like you </span>
  <em>
    <span>don't</span>
  </em>
  <span> get in deep shit for breaking stuff over here." Floris laughed, flipping the camera to show the crudely glued-together floral vase sitting on the side-table next to the couch, a testament to Clay’s past gracelessness. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"I mean... they’ve basically stopped caring at this point."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"That's not an excuse to be </span>
  <em>
    <span>careless</span>
  </em>
  <span> Clay." Niki chipped in, peering up from the book she was reading.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"I'm not </span>
  <em>
    <span>careless</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Nik, just... clumsy." Clay shot back with a roll of his eyes, receiving two very disapproving glances that quickly broke into giggles.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Done anything exciting with his royal asshole yet?" </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"All I've done is fly here, sign an NDA and get some photos taken of us meetings and being 'friendly'" He groaned, the last word in air quotations.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Another NDA? Surely you've signed one for the palace before." Floris said with a questioning look.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Yeah, and I seriously think it was thicker than some of my high school textbooks.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"What are they </span>
  <em>
    <span>hiding</span>
  </em>
  <span>?" Niki laughed, setting her book down upturned as to not lose the page before jumping on the sofa closer to the video call, sitting on top of Floris, who had been reclining on the sofa, who proceeded to let out something between a string of profanities and a girlish scream, dropping the phone. After the typical sibling-like squabble which Clay could only hear, seeing as the phone lay flat on the ground, he was finally picked up to see the two of them sprawled across the sofa, but not crossing the line in the middle.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"You know what, I bet he has </span>
  <em>
    <span>tons</span>
  </em>
  <span> of secrets, like  some secret </span>
  <em>
    <span>lover</span>
  </em>
  <span>, or-or he's </span>
  <em>
    <span>gay</span>
  </em>
  <span> or something," Floris said with a grin. “The palace would </span>
  <em>
    <span>hate</span>
  </em>
  <span> it if he was gay, I bet.” Floris had been pretty open about his bisexuality for a while now. It was never something he had cared to hide, being fortunate enough to come from a loving and accepting family, and he was very much active in supporting LGBTQ+ charities. The other two were also, of course, but something about a shamelessly bi activist grandson of the Vice President was very appealing to much of the younger demographic.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Or a </span>
  <em>
    <span>secret gay lover</span>
  </em>
  <span>!" Niki quipped and the trio giggled together like children at recess.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"More likely it's so I can’t say anything if I see them swapping him out for one of the other clones because the wiring was wrong or something." Clay rolled his eyes dramatically. "What's happening over in the good old U-S of A then?" </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Not much, really..." Niki started, before heading into some half-hour tirade about the headlines, magazines and god-knows-what else. Clay, honestly, wasn't really paying attention. He was just grateful to have the familiar presence of his best (only) friends, even if only through a phone.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>At some point between her lecture about how tabloids are harmful to society and the dangers of the inaccuracies coming with journalists writing articles on statistics that they didn’t understand, Clay was decidedly very thirsty and a little peckish so he decided to scout out that living area Zak had mentioned to him earlier. He found it with ease; he may be clumsy but </span>
  <em>
    <span>god</span>
  </em>
  <span> did he have a good sense of direction (it had proved useful one too many times in the past), and filled up a glass with water from the dispenser on the fridge door in the kitchenette. He made sure to sit properly on the sofa, not sprawling like he normally would - he felt it was not quite the right place to make himself at home, even disturbing the perfectly plump pillows felt wrong. It was strange, sitting in what seemed like an empty palace at 10pm, in the same way an empty supermarket feels strange, or deserted multi-story car parks at night feel strange. The distant cacophony of London traffic was all but a constant afterthought worming its way to the back of his head, and the palace gardens were lit up by the eminent light pollution radiating from the city which blocked out any chance of even a glimpse of the stars, should the sky be clear. He wasn't particularly tired, which could be put down to multiple things: the jet-lag, the fucked up sleep schedule, the insomnia or even the caffeine addiction, so he sat there, occasionally adding a word or two to the ongoing conversation between Floris and Niki, wholly disconnected from his surroundings. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He was ready to chip in once more when he heard some soft footsteps approaching. He seemed to recall Zak saying Darryl was also staying on this floor, along with a few other personnel and-</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Two seconds, guys." He mumbled, covering the speakers as the footsteps drew closer, knowing that half of what the pair were saying could probably get him kicked out of the castle, but the sight that emerged was really not what he was expecting. Clearly the other two could tell from his facial expression, but their questioning was quickly cut off by Clay hanging up the call, almost dropping his phone as his wide eyes fixated on the shadowed figure.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Sorry for missing a day yesterday, I started a oneshot which I was gonna try and get done for New Year's Eve (since it was based off of the song New Year's Eve by Mal Blum) but (after writing 1.7K words) I felt it wasn't going too great. Maybe I'll come back to it in a week or so! </p><p>Artio &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>"Do you normally raid your guest's kitchens?" Clay asked. He was irritated that the peace and quiet had been so rudely broken, but, also rather amused at the sight of the rumpled man in front of him.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><span> "Oh-um... hello?" Clay stumbled over his words in his surprised (and sleep-deprived) state. There in the doorway stood a half-awake, rather dishevelled-looking Prince. He wasn't wearing the perfectly ironed, creaseless suit that Clay was used to seeing him in, rather a long-sleeved navy t-shirt, sleeves just a little too long and so covering his hands, and a pair of blue and white plaid flannel pyjama bottoms. The Prince yawned, blissfully unaware of another person’s presence, digging the heels of his palms into his eyes only to meet Clay's when he removed them and very quickly matching his stunned expression. He had earbuds in, his dark hair was a mess, his feet bare. Rather shockingly, he </span><em><span>actually</span></em><span> looked </span><em><span>properly</span></em> <em><span>human</span></em><span> for once, rather than some Disney Prince. He almost </span><em><span>liked</span></em><span> it, if he could go as far as to say he liked anything about the Prince, which he wouldn't dream of doing.</span></p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Oh- hello, Clayton." He spoke softly, his voice a little hoarse as he stood up a little straighter at the sight of the American. "Sorry- I- umm.. I wasn’t expecting to see you here… uhh- Krave?"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"What?" </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Oh..." He paused before padding over to the kitchenette and retrieving a bright red cereal box donning the word 'KRAVE' in bold white letters. "I'm sorry I- there was none by me and I thought they might have got some for you."</span>
</p><p> </p><p><span>"Oh... okay. Do you <em>normally</em> raid your guest's kitchens?" Clay asked. He was irritated that the peace and quiet had been so rudely broken, but, also rather amused at the sight of the rumpled man in front of him. </span><span>He then realised that the Prince was hesitating before opening the box. He gave a quick nod, considering saying ‘no’ just for the </span><em><span>sheer</span></em> <em><span>thrill</span></em><span> of denying him, the Prince, something so trivial, but he hadn’t really been thinking.</span></p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"I'm sorry I just… only when I can't sleep." He responded, his expression rather unreadable.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Is that often?"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The prince only nodded in response, having to jump a little to grab a mug from the top shelf (which didn't go unnoticed by Clay, but he was too tired to think of witty torments at this time of night).</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Me too." The American answered after a brief, but deliberate, pause.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>George froze in his actions, turning to properly look at Clay, his face a little startled for a second before returning to pouring milk in the delicate china mug."Nice to know I'm not the only one, I guess. I just assumed you'd be asleep by now." He said as he placed the mug in the microwave for a few seconds, before pouring it over the bowl of cereal.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>“Well, unfortunately, I’m not.” Clay heaved himself up from where he was sprawled to amble over to the kitchenette. “So what is it then?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What do you mean?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Insomniac? Overthinker? Nightmares? Overachiever? Why is it that you can’t sleep?” Clay asked, trying his best to sound unbothered but for some reason something within him was genuinely curious.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“One of them, I guess. Probably a mix, to be honest. I’ve never been that great at sleeping.” The Prince admitted earnestly.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
    <br/>
  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Me neither.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Do you- do you want some? I’ve got some milk left." Prince George offered hesitantly to break the awkwardly deafening silence, closely watching Clay’s reaction to the offering of sorts.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Why are you using warm milk for cereal, that's so gross." Clay's face wrinkled in disgust, getting an eye roll from the Prince.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Just trust me on this one. It’s good, I promise."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Okay then, I guess." And with that, the Prince grabbed another bowl, filling it with the cereal before pouring over steaming milk and pushing it towards him, grabbing another spoon. They started to eat in silence, the only sound being their munching and the clinks of the spoons hitting the bowls. "You were right,” Clay mumbled reluctantly through a mouthful, “this is really good."  The cereal was little wheat pockets filled with chocolate, and the warm milk caused the chocolate to melt but the outside remained crispy and, as much as he didn't want to admit it, it was delicious. George shot him a slight smile, surprisingly genuine, before seemingly musing for a second.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Have you thought about tomorrow?" He asked tentatively, quickly turning his gaze down to fixate on the cereal bowl.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"What about it?"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"What you're gonna say, how you're gonna act, what-"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Hey, watch." Clay interrupted his ramblings as he took a few steps closer to the Prince whipping out his phone and taking a quick photo of the cereal bowls, the blurry outline of the prince just visible in the background.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Nothing quite like late-night cereal with @HRHPrinceGeorge." He read out monotonously before pressing tweet. "See, stop overthinking it. It’s gonna be fine. All we have to do is act friendly enough in the interview, get some photos taken with kittens and then I can fly back to America and pretend none of this ever happened, ‘k?" The pair finished eating in a lulled quiet, both not really sure what to say. The Prince (rather surprisingly to Clay) picked up both bowls when they were done, putting them in the dishwasher. Only the buzz of Clay's phone drew them out of the awkward silence which had formed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I should-I should get back to Floris and Niki- we were on a call when you came in, they're wondering where I went." He said as he saw another 20 notifications asking him what happened.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Okay-um yes, of course! I’m sorry for interrupting you!” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"It’s alright.” Clay stifled a yawn, scrolling through his phone.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Goodnight, Clayton.” The Prince called as he turned to leave.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Clay." </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Huh?" The prince turned to face Clay again with a slightly perplexed look.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Please call me </span>
  <em>
    <span>Clay</span>
  </em>
  <span>. No-one who knows me calls me Clayton."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Fine, but only if you agree to never call me His Royal Highness, or Prince George or anything of that sort. I much prefer just George."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Good night, just George." Clay laughed, genuinely this time, slightly taken aback by how little he wanted to punt George for the first time ever.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Oh for god's sake you know what I meant." He shot back with a sleepy smile. "Night Clay." And with that, he padded off.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Clay sent a quick text to the others explaining what happened, before heading off to his room, throwing himself onto the bed and passing out, falling into a deep, dreamless sleep.</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <span>EDITED</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Sorry this one is pretty short!</p><p>Arti &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>"...give me your phone."</p><p>"What?" </p><p>"So I can put in my number? I'm not asking for late night romantic conversations or something, I literally just want photos of the cats."</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>
  <span>Clay awoke rather early the next day, earlier than he was required to, at least. The sun was newly risen, the sky still sporting remnants of its blush, and the palace was, quite like the night before, eerily quiet. He wondered for a second if it did ever get louder, but the ephemeral thought was corrected by the soft pattering of distant footsteps he could hear if he listened closely, and he imagined that as more of the palace awoke it would only get noisier. He roughly rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms until the geometric hypnosis that was phosphenes merged and disappeared into dark nothingness, then brushing his teeth, showering, putting in contacts and changing into his outfit for today; a somewhat informal suit, not quite imposing and businesslike but still smart enough to make televised and photographed appearances alongside the most loved man in the UK. He dawdled the next few hours on his phone before the alarm he had set to wake himself up finally rang and was then ushered around to breakfast, then to a car again as they made their way to their first scheduled event; a TV interview.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>It was relatively uneventful, which was slightly surprising. Through some sort of unspoken clarity, pretty much everyone who was aware of the plan was anticipating a mistake. Just one word misspoken, one overly awkward interaction, and international humiliation could be brought upon both the Royal Family and the President yet again; the stakes were higher than the public would ever know for a seemingly basic TV appearance.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>The interviewer was a generic, well-spoken Londoner in a crease-less red dress matching the shade of the BBC logo plastered around the building. She kept a somewhat serious demeanour, occasionally throwing in a (pretty obviously) pre-written joke, but neither of them minded. These sorts of interviews were much easier to navigate than the more lighthearted sort. They were simple to answer, no hidden nuances to trip them up, and the lack of invasiveness that came with the more solemn air was certainly something they both were glad about. Clay didn't know whether to be disgusted or thankful that it was starting to become easier to pretend to be the Prince’s, or, from what they had discussed the night before, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Just George</span>
  </em>
  <span>'s, friend, but there was no time to dwell on it whilst ensuring that he was saying exactly the right thing at the right time, as is the nature of national live television - there is very little you can take back. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>They were asked straightforward questions; how long they had been friends, an answer which had been well-rehearsed on both parts, what happened at the wedding, which again had been ingrained in their minds by Darryl and Zac ("We were just </span>
  <em>
    <span>joking </span>
  </em>
  <span>around, having some </span>
  <em>
    <span>fun</span>
  </em>
  <span>, enjoying the </span>
  <em>
    <span>wonderful </span>
  </em>
  <span>wedding when Clay </span>
  <em>
    <span>slipped </span>
  </em>
  <span>and fell into George."), what they liked the most about each other, which was easy enough to make up, </span>
  <em>
    <span>just tell the public what they already think</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>He was surprised that George let him lead the interview, he had his suspicions from their midnight encounter, but he was begrudgingly sure that he had mistaken in thinking this was all fun and games for the Prince when he saw him discreetly fidgeting with his hands, which lay in his lap, during the appearance. That fairytale-ready smile didn’t drop once despite the fact he was picking at the cuticles around his thumb so hard that scarlet droplets were forming, and though they were hastily wiped away against the dark fabric of his trousers, Clay still noticed.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Clay didn't mind piloting the interview, however; he had always been a rather extroverted character, naturally speaking with eloquence and charm, his smile being, in his humble opinion at least, just as dazzling as the prince's (if not more). On the plus side, it did make it seem more like they were friends, with Clay answering each question with ease and George occasionally chipping in with fun little quips and stories despite the fact that, in reality, Clay was like this with everyone. But that didn’t matter. All that mattered was that they had successfully fooled the general public thus far, and with that, their reputations would remain relatively unscathed. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Once it was over, they both breathed an audible sigh of relief, before being whisked away to their next stop; Battersea Dogs and Cats Home. The pair were driven to South-West London, and Clay took a brief moment to observe the area before they were shepherded in. There was a rather interesting-looking building that stood between them and the river Thames, Battersea power station, he remembered someone mentioning it. His gaze dropped from the structure when, in the corner of his eye, he noticed a few people stopping and staring at them. </span>
  <em>
    <span>To be fair</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Clay reasoned, </span>
  <em>
    <span>a few years ago I would have certainly stared at the FSOTUS and the Prince... and we're not exactly a sight for sore eyes either. </span>
  </em>
  <span>He nearly laughed at his internal commentary, flashing a polite smile to a few of the members of the public taking in the scene which caused them to practically squeal, before hurrying a little closer to George.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“People behind us are watching!” Clay warned him through gritted teeth before laughing, George quickly taking the hint and mirroring his expression. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Let’s just hurry up and get inside, okay?” George said, his tone far warmer than the words warranted.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>They were greeted by a few people sporting cobalt blue polo-shirts and navy fleeces. One of the three stepped forward, a young, brunette teen, looking slightly confused for a second before giving a somewhat hesitant bow of sorts.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“There’s no need for formalities like that!” George chuckled, giving him a friendly smile. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p><span>He looked quite young, perhaps a couple years younger than Clay, and was, annoyingly, taller than </span><em><span>even</span></em> <em><span>him</span></em><span>. His hair was a mousy brown and his hands clad in mismatching gloves - one black, the other white.</span></p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>"Hi-hello there You-your Royal Highness and err-Mr Clairmont-Diaz!" He stumbled over his words, seemingly unprepared for the situation. Clay raised an eyebrow at his American accent. "My name is Ranboo, welcome to the shelter! I will-I am going to be your guide today."</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>"It's lovely to meet you Ranboo. Please, call me George." He greeted him sincerely, shaking the gloved hand.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>"Nice to see a fellow American over here - and yeah, please call me Clayton or Clay, Mr Clairmont-Diaz makes me feel so old!"</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>"Oh- okay then!" He gave them an awkward laugh, but his tense posture noticeably relaxed at the stark lack of uptightness that he was from the pair. "Right this way, please."</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>They were led by Ranboo to a room near the lobby where they had stood, flanked by Zak, Darryl and a few other staff members. It had walls plastered with photos of animals, children's drawings, letters, certificates, so much so that barely an inch of the navy paintwork was visible.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>"Ok, so, first we are going to do the promotional video - that will only be quick, it's only short! Then you get to come and see them all!"</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>"Great! Thank you very much." Clay said with a courteous smile as the pair sat down on the wooden chairs that had been laid out for them. The video was, indeed, pretty quick. It was only a few lines for each of them to recite about how crucial it was that people donate to shelters and adopt pets, and after a few takes they had all the film they needed. Once that was over, they got to do what they had both been looking forward to the most.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>"</span>
  <em>
    <span>Holy shit! </span>
  </em>
  <span>" Clay exclaimed excitedly, just about catching the way George’s smile may have grown a little at his words in the corner of his eye. He didn’t question it, though. They crouched down to meet the dozen or so cats, some kittens and some fully grown, scampering around and playing by their feet, and they quickly made themselves comfortable on the grey linoleum floor.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“They're all friendly, feel free to pick them up but please be gentle, of course! Let them down if they wriggle though or they might-uhh-pee on you." Ranboo explained awkwardly as the pair looked up.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>"Let me guess - personal experience?" Clay chuckled as he gave the kitten who had scrambled into his lap a head scratch, his smile only growing as it lent back into his hand blinked slowly in contentment.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>"Yep." Ranboo sighed. "The photographer will be here in a second, and when she arrives honestly just keep playing with the kittens like you are right now and pretend she isn't there."</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>"Okay!" Clay’s focus was pulled to another kitten, who was attempting to jump into his lap.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>"Thank you, Ranboo!" George called out softly as the boy turned to retreat back to the safety of his colleagues.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>"Oh- no problem at all! Honestly, it's been an honour." Ranboo rambled, scratching his neck awkwardly. George just let out a little chuckle before turning his attention to the kittens.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>"That one looks like Crookshanks." George remarked, looking over to Clay and then back to the cat in question. It had dangerously wild long brown fur and a squashed face, a constant look of perturbation upon its face which was rather hilarious to see as it strolled around, poised and self-assured. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>"</span>
  <em>
    <span>Crookshanks </span>
  </em>
  <span>?"</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>"Hermione's cat- have you </span>
  <em>
    <span>not </span>
  </em>
  <span>seen Harry Potter?" George sounded surprisingly worked up about something so trivial, and Clay couldn’t help but smirk.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>"Of </span>
  <em>
    <span>course </span>
  </em>
  <span>I have seen Harry Potter. </span>
  <em>
    <span>You </span>
  </em>
  <span>have?" </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>"</span>
  <em>
    <span>Yes</span>
  </em>
  <span>? Who do you take me for?”</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“A Prince?” </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Whatever. Can you help me choose which to adopt?" George added nonchalantly, watching Clay coo at the cat in his lap as it tried to tackle his hand.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>"You’re adopting one? That’s news to me.” Clay didn’t even look up as he spoke, all his focus on the adorable tabby sprawled across his thighs (and rightly so). “</span>
  <em>
    <span> I can feel you staring at me, you know</span>
  </em>
  <span>." He murmured apathetically under his breath, his voice low and barely loud enough for even George to catch. He subtly glanced over to the Prince afterwards, watching as he squirmed uncomfortably, his cheeks a deep cherry red.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>"I managed- I managed to convince everyone at the palace to let me adopt one of the cats or the- or the kittens last night... I gave them some bullshit about PR for the shelter and all that, but I've really wanted a pet for ages." George’s attempt to change the subject was slightly laughable and Clay revelled in his awkwardness, knowing that he was the cause of the discomfort, the stumbled words and stuttering, especially with the photographer arriving any second.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>"Oh really-" Clay started, raising an eyebrow and staring deeply into the doe-like chestnut eyes which flickered back and forth across the room, settling anywhere but the blond sat in front of him. Clay was almost certain he heard George let out a sigh when he was cut off by Darryl, the unwavering viridian gaze shifting after what had felt like hours.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>"Clay, Prince George, this is Sarah, the photographer for today. In case you've forgotten-" He gave a very pointed look at Clay who did tend to forget things rather a lot. In his defence, he did have ADHD, which made him get very distracted very quickly, but this, he had not. "-She is taking pictures of you guys with the cats which the shelter can then use as promotion, so just keep on playing with the cats and looking cute." Darryl seemed blissfully aware of the silent torment between them, and </span>
  <em>
    <span>hopefully, it will stay that way.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Clay gave him a mock salute, his face stern for a second before the smile inevitably cracked through. He glanced back to George, who rolled his eyes, shooting him a poisonous look before putting on a grin. He had a cat cradled in his arms like a child - a pretty, grey tabby with relatively short fur and an adorably-round face. It emitted loud, euphoric purrs as George scratched under its chin, eyes closed. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Clay's attention was quickly grabbed by a brown tabby cat with a white tuxedo and large, mossy eyes, a little white blob between them. It lay on the floor by his leg, head resting on his knee, and it wouldn't fail to let out a loud mew of disapproval and a deadpan stare every time he stopped stroking it. He picked the cat up, watching as it stared up to him with expectant eyes and started purring, stopping and staring at him like before every time there was a pause in the stroking, and Clay couldn’t help but grin at her. He could feel George’s eyes on him again. He didn’t comment on it this time.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>"Would you like me to tell you a little more about the cats?" Ranboo asked as he approached where the pair were sitting on the floor, wringing his hands.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>"That would be great, thank you," George responded politely.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>"So that one you've got there is Oscar, Your- sorry, Prince George. He's only 4 months and is the sweetest boy, always sleeping." Clay was amused to see the sudden shock of joy seemingly enter Ranboo, his actions a whole lot more animated and his face lighting up as he started to talk about the cats. It was clear that he loved them, and that made Clay smile. "And that one you've got there, Clayton, is Twix. She is 3 months, full of personality, and it seems she’s taken a liking to you. We do find she gets along brilliantly with some people but with others… not so much. Her and her brothers, those three over there-" He gestured to the tabby cats tumbling and rolling over each other on the other side of the room, "-were born here! When we name litters born at the shelter, we generally go for a theme, so they were named after chocolate bars."</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>"Chocolate bars?" Clay chuckled softly, "Aren't you a good girl Twix?" His voice went high pitched as he cooed endearingly at the cat, kissing the top of her head. He could hear George laughing at him so he turned to face him fully, his chin gently resting on the cat's head. "What are you laughing at?" he shot, expressionless, but his face quickly morphed back into the grin that it had previously donned "It better not be Twix, don’t they teach you manners in the palace? Honestly, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Royalty</span>
  </em>
  <span>. What a stuck up lot, amirite kitty?" The cat glanced up at him with a knowing look and he gave her one back. "Of course you do, you're </span>
  <em>
    <span>such </span>
  </em>
  <span>a smart cat." </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>"You're </span>
  <em>
    <span>such </span>
  </em>
  <span>an idiot." George said as straight-faced as he could, struggling to suppress the amusement threatening to show.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>"Are you gonna adopt that one... Oscar was it?" Clay changed the subject, knowing that openly bickering in front of the photographer and the shelter-workers was not the best idea, to say the least.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>"I think so- look at how cute he is!" George hugged the cat closer to him, watching adoringly how it nuzzled into his chest.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>"But what about </span>
  <em>
    <span>Twix</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know…” </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>She's even cuter than him!" Clay shot back, and George moved his hands to cup the cat's face. "Don't say that where he can hear you!" </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Clay wheezed in response, getting some rather questionable looks from the sidelines (and knowing ones from Darryl and Techno). "And you say-" </span>
  <em>
    <span>wheeze</span>
  </em>
  <span>, " </span>
  <em>
    <span>-I'm </span>
  </em>
  <span>the idiot." </span>
  <em>
    <span>Wheeze</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What is </span>
  <em>
    <span>wrong </span>
  </em>
  <span>with your laugh?”</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Clay looked up with a deadpan stare which could rival Twix’s. It was a silent message, along the lines of ‘don’t try that here,’ and George quickly got it, his expression only faltering for a second under the intense gaze. "Shut up and stop being mean to Oscar," he spoke quickly, attempting to cover up the unbearable tension which was starting to rise once again.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>"Okay, okay, just- take Twix for a second, look at how </span>
  <em>
    <span>friendly </span>
  </em>
  <span>she is." Clay handed George the cat, who mewed in discontent for a second, before rubbing her face into George's chest, letting out relaxed purrs once again.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>"Look at her, isn't she the </span>
  <em>
    <span>cutest</span>
  </em>
  <span>?" Clay was annoyed that he almost felt </span>
  <em>
    <span>amicable </span>
  </em>
  <span>towards the British man, not wanting to admit to himself that they did have a little more in common than he had previously thought, and he could almost go as far to say that he was almost (he internally retched) likeable, sometimes.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>"Okay, she is pretty sweet. I can't make any promises, but I will ask the palace if I am allowed to adopt two, I've got to come back another day to actually complete the adoption process." </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Clay cheered in response, getting confused looks from around him. "Wait- give me your phone."</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>"What?" The Brit looked confused, temporarily stopping his stroking, only to have his hand nudged by Twix with a small, irritated mew of discontent.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>"So I can put in my number? I'm not asking for late night romantic conversations or something, I literally just want photos of the cats."</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>"What- okay fine, here."</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Clay took the phone, quickly adding his contact before handing it back.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>"First Son Of The </span>
  <em>
    <span>Better</span>
  </em>
  <span> Side of the Atlantic? </span>
  <em>
    <span>Really</span>
  </em>
  <span>?" </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Clay only wheezed in response, receiving yet another eye roll from the Prince.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>"Alright you two, time to go," Zak called from the side of the room. He and Darryl had been quietly chatting away in the meantime, Technoblade occasionally chipping in too. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I honestly am not a huge fan of this chapter, parts of it feel really forced... I do like the next one a lot more, though, so keep an eye out for it tomorrow! :D</p><p>Arti &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Chapter 7</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>"You two. In here. Stay down" </p><p>"Techno what-?"Clay was cut off as the pair were shoved into some sort of closet, the door slamming quickly behind them. He tripped over some kind of cleaning equipment, tumbling to the floor, and, due to the proximity, he brought George down with him.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>
  <span>With one last loving look at the tabby, Clay gave Twix a final scratch between her ears as the staff began herding the cats up and the group started to leave. Zak, Darryl and Technoblade left first, along with the employees who were not currently wrangling squirming kittens into travel carriers, Clay and George reluctantly leaving shortly after. The pair ambled along the hallway in a tense silence, both attempting to contrive the conflicting feelings that they held towards the other. A commotion of sorts was heard up ahead, however, and they turned to each other in confusion; there were shouts, and a pop of sorts in the distance. It sounded rather alarmingly like a gunshot.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"You two. In here. Stay down" Techno commanded as he jogged down the corridor towards them, his flat voice not betraying any information as to what the hell was going on.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Techno what-?" Clay was cut off as the pair were shoved into some sort of closet, the door slamming quickly behind them. He tripped over some kind of cleaning equipment, tumbling to the floor, and, due to the proximity, he brought George down with him. The Prince let out a gentle grunt as his back met the floor and Clay fell on top of him. He initially managed to partially support his weight on his hands, but his right arm quickly buckled under the tendrils of pain shooting up from his injured hand</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"</span>
  <em>
    <span>Fuck</span>
  </em>
  <span>" He winced, trying his very best to hold himself up on one arm, but he was practically smothering George, every part of him larger to the extent that if someone opened the door to the rather compromising scene, it would probably take them a second to realise that there were, indeed, two people there. He felt every movement from the rapid rising and falling of George’s chest, each shallow breath fanning across Clay’s cheeks, each metronomic pump of his heart under the skin of his chest.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"</span>
  <em>
    <span>Oh my god</span>
  </em>
  <span>." George muttered under his breath. It felt like time froze. Their faces were mere centimetres away, noses just about grazing each other if one of them left. Every point of contact sent hot sparks fizzing through his body, making him feel… something. Clay didn’t want to think about it. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That </span>
  <em>
    <span>fucking hurt</span>
  </em>
  <span>. My hand was pretty badly cut up the last time we ended up like this." Clay laughed drily, still keeping his voice a whisper. George looked nothing short of </span>
  <em>
    <span>stunned</span>
  </em>
  <span>. His eyes were wide, staring directly into Clay's and for a second, his mind went completely blank. The emptiness was short lived, however, and was quickly filled with panicked thoughts: </span>
  <em>
    <span>I'm currently locked in a closet with the fucking Prince of England, the guy who I hate but I can confirm is actually human, whilst someone probably tried to shoot us or something and he is lying right below me what the fuck- </span>
  </em>
  <span>"Why does this keep on happening to </span>
  <em>
    <span>us</span>
  </em>
  <span>?" Clay let out an unemotional chuckle again, his whispers slightly more hostile. The unbearable tension was choking him, something needed to be said for him to even draw in a shaky breath.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Do you- do you </span>
  <em>
    <span>mind</span>
  </em>
  <span>?" George stuttered, the same shocked expression remaining.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Don't say it like that, this is </span>
  <em>
    <span>your</span>
  </em>
  <span> fault </span>
  <em>
    <span>Your Royal Highness</span>
  </em>
  <span>." Clay mocked sarcastically, his voice starting to rise as the adrenaline set in from the </span>
  <em>
    <span>current predicament,</span>
  </em>
  <span> in all senses.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"What do you mean this is </span>
  <em>
    <span>my</span>
  </em>
  <span> fault?" George hissed under his breath, acutely aware of their situation and somewhat attempting to remind Clay of how quiet they were meant to be.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"No-one ever tries to kill </span>
  <em>
    <span>me</span>
  </em>
  <span> when I'm doing presidential stuff but the moment I go out with the Prince someone tries to shoot me - </span>
  <em>
    <span>you don't even have guns over here</span>
  </em>
  <span> - that makes it so much worse Jesus-"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Will you </span>
  <em>
    <span>shut up</span>
  </em>
  <span> before you get us both killed?"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Techno is standing in front of the door, we're not going to be killed-"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Then can you</span>
  <em>
    <span> get off of me</span>
  </em>
  <span> at least?"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"I'm </span>
  <em>
    <span>American</span>
  </em>
  <span>, you can't tell me what to do." Clay retorted childishly as he awkwardly manoeuvred himself off of George to a sitting position with his one usable hand. The closet was very small, only about two metres or so both wide and long and was cluttered with cleaning equipment, so the pair found themselves sitting, the whole of one of their bodies awkwardly pressed against the other.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Could you please </span>
  <em>
    <span>move over</span>
  </em>
  <span>?" George whispered hesitantly. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"What do you </span>
  <em>
    <span>mean</span>
  </em>
  <span> can I move over- can </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span> move over?" Clay scoffed with a rather aggressive glare.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"There's no space on </span>
  <em>
    <span>my</span>
  </em>
  <span> side."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"And you think there's some on </span>
  <em>
    <span>mine</span>
  </em>
  <span>?" </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They fell into an awkward silence. Both desperately wanted to say something to dissipate the strangulating tension, neither really knew what.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"So, Harry Potter, huh?" Clay’s halfhearted attempt at conversation was admittedly rather pathetic, but it was something. George shot him a quizzical, belligerent look. "You said the cat looked like Crookshanks." He followed up after a few more seconds of unendurable silence.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"What about it?" George was no longer hostile, just confused.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"I didn't think that there would be time in the royal schedule for popular culture."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"I still had time to do normal stuff Clayt-Clay." George retorted, unamused.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"What, alongside waltz lessons and manners coaching?" Clay was sarcastic, but George didn’t laugh.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"I.. err yes." He sounded uncomfortable. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Has anyone ever told you that sometimes, when you're not being a stuck up prick, you are almost pleasant to be around?"</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>"Why do you </span>
  <em>
    <span>hate</span>
  </em>
  <span> me, Clayton?" George let out an exasperated sigh, receiving a silent scowl at the full name.</span>
</p><p> </p><p><span>"Is the </span><em><span>conceitedness</span></em><span> and </span><em><span>permanent</span></em> <em><span>air of superiority</span></em><span> not enough of a reason?"</span></p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"I thought we were over this." George uttered under his breath.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Do you remember the first time we met, George?" Clay’s tone suddenly changed. It was intense, yet wholly indecipherable. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"I.. umm…” George paused, trying to gauge any sort of a reaction from Clay’s enigmatic expression. “I can't say I do actually."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"At the Olympics." </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Wh-What?" George spluttered, unsuccessfully grasping at shreds of memories.</span>
</p><p> </p><p><span>"I was </span><em><span>so</span></em> <em><span>excited</span></em><span> to meet you, you know? I had built you up in my head to be this perfect fucking Disney prince like the media told us </span><em><span>normal</span></em><span> people." He scoffed. "I thought you were the same perfect, charming, British prince that everyone else thinks you are, and do you know what happened? Do you </span><em><span>remember what you said</span></em><span>?" </span></p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"I- I don't, sorry?"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"That was the problem. You said nothing at all… at first at least. You just took one look at me and ignored me. You looked like you had just seen something </span>
  <em>
    <span>disgusting-</span>
  </em>
  <span> something- something </span>
  <em>
    <span>dirty</span>
  </em>
  <span>." Clay spat, rancorous. He was only getting hotter, his cheeks flushed in anger, his hands shaking. His emerald gaze was feral and sharp, mutilating George’s mind, slicing away any defence he held as it drew out vulnerability, solace, even fear of the man confined next to him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"I- err- Jesus, Clay. I'm so sorry, I- I had no idea." </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"You then turned to Zak and you said- you know I was </span>
  <em>
    <span>so</span>
  </em>
  <span> excited to see you, I had been looking up to you, you were who dumb teenage me wanted to be!” His words were muddled and wild, both bruising and bruised. “After I had just introduced myself, you shook my hand and you turned to Zak and you said '</span>
  <em>
    <span>can you get rid of him?</span>
  </em>
  <span>'" </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>George’s face dropped, the memory had returned. "Oh. I didn't think you'd heard that."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"That doesn't change how fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>shitty</span>
  </em>
  <span> it was!" </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"No it doesn't. I'm sorry.” George’s tone was impossibly gentle, the sincerity allowing Clay to calm down a little. “Is that why... </span>
  <em>
    <span>all this time</span>
  </em>
  <span>?"</span>
</p><p> </p><p><span>“It's not just that, George, I just…” He let out a sigh, composing himself. “I'm the son of the first female president. A lot of people aren’t exactly her biggest fan. And if that wasn't enough for people to </span><em><span>eagerly despise</span></em><span> me, my dad is half Mexican and an immigrant, and I know I'm </span><em><span>so goddamn fortunate</span></em><span> to be white passing but that doesn’t mean that people don’t remember it. I used to look up to you, you know. Especially when I was thrown into this shit head-first, I looked to you to see how to deal with it all, at least until… that happened. But you’ve always had it </span><em><span>so</span></em> <em><span>easy</span></em><span>; you were born into this life. This is all you know. You've been brought up to deal with all this shit and </span><em><span>everybody</span></em><span> loves you. You're</span><em><span> fucking perfect</span></em><span>." </span></p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Clay I... I don't know what to say. I'm </span>
  <em>
    <span>so, so sorry</span>
  </em>
  <span> for how I acted back then but if it means anything at all it had been less than six months since my dad had- he had </span>
  <em>
    <span>passed</span>
  </em>
  <span>. I was a massive prick to everyone back then, and I </span>
  <em>
    <span>know</span>
  </em>
  <span> it doesn't fix it… but perhaps it makes it a little better..." he trailed off. "You know, he always adored animals... my Dad I mean..."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Is that why-"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Yeah, that's why I picked here." They fell into a lulled silence again, just processing everything that had happened. “He would have wanted me to get a pet, especially if he knew how lonely I am! We used to have a dog, and two cats. Because I’m the youngest, they had got them when Wil and Phil were pretty young so before I was born, and that meant that they also passed around the same time. I couldn’t face pets for a while, dogs being walked outside the palace, royal horses… they all just reminded me of him… so when I picked here I- I thought it- I knew it would make me fall in love with cats again, and I knew that I would end up getting one… so that’s that, I guess.” He let out a defeated sigh, his head hung to hide the fact that he was blinking away tears, but Clay could still see them, and his heart was straining from the turmoil of emotions he had felt in the past few minutes.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>At least it’s nice to know you’re not perfect!" Clay laughed feebly, and he could practically hear George roll his eyes, but he did notice the corners of his mouth curve upwards too.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The moment - if you could even call it a moment - was interrupted by Techno flinging opening the door and pulling them out. They were swiftly briefed that a crowd had gathered outside the shelter after people had posted about the pair's location on social media. Someone had set off a firework and the crowd thought it was a gun. Luckily, no one was hurt. They met Zak, Darryl and the shelter staff at some sort of back exit, the cars parked outside to presumably avoid the mass of people. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The awkwardness between the two had quickly resurfaced after the outpour of emotions, and Clay wasn't entirely sure whether to give the Prince a handshake or a hug.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"I - err- expect you to let me know when you get the cats, alright?" He chuckled, scratching the back of his neck.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"It may just be one, don't be disappointed."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"It better be two, Your Royal Highness." He mocked with a small bow.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Whatever, maybe I </span>
  <em>
    <span>won't</span>
  </em>
  <span> ask to adopt Twix too-"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"You better-"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"I'm joking you </span>
  <em>
    <span>idiot</span>
  </em>
  <span>." George rolled his eyes playfully once again. The term was endearing this time. Clay liked it more that way.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"You should probably text me anyway- we've got to keep up this act."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>George nodded in agreement. "Have a safe flight, I guess."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Bye." Clay said, giving him a stiff wave as he left. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>So here marks the end of where I had written to previously! This means that unfortunately no more daily uploads, sorry guys! I am going to take a short break from this fic (when I say short break I mean no more than a few days) to FINALLY write the highly anticipated and long-awaited third and final chapter of my dnf oneshot <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27593807/chapters/67503002">Nothing</a>, and then it will be back to this! I'm going to aim for 2/3 chapters a week moving forward, so I guess we will see how that pans out!</p><p>Artio &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Chapter 8</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>"...this week the tabloids seem to think I’m simultaneously dating some girl I met at a gala, Alastair, and even YOU! How absurd."</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>It didn’t take long after his royal escapade for Clay to fall back into the almost motion sickness-inducingly fast-paced life that was that of the First Son Of The United States, and also a law student. After the initial humour had worn off of seeing blown-up pictures of him and George in the Interview, him and George with kittens - hell - even him and George <em> hugging </em> plastered on every magazine and newspaper under the sun, paired with the most ridiculous headlines ( <em> “A Transatlantic Bromance? Prince George and FSOTUS Clayton’s unconventional relationship revealed!” </em> and <em> “International Relation(ship)s - We’re jealous of The Prince and FSOTUS’s friendship, and you should be too!” </em> being Clay’s personal favourites) the trip was forgotten about as quickly as the media got bored of it.</p><p> </p><p>After finally escaping the tight grip of boresome classes that the day had held him under, he approached the Dirksen Building. The guard shot him a poisonous glare as he made his way through security, he remembered her being the one who was convinced that he had vandalised one of the… less popular members of the senate’s door sign, something he neither confirmed nor denied, but he gave her a large, sarcastic smile as he made his way past her, something he had become much accustomed to doing, having managed to piss an incredible number of personnel off in his past 3 years of residence in the White House. He ambled along familiar corridors, almost automatically pressing the wrong button in the lift. Ever since his father was elected to the Senate, he had practically memorised the entire layout of the building. Almost every afternoon after school he used to make his way to his father’s office, where they talked about many topics, both political and - less so, and it was where he learned many of the skills that he utilised to this day, skills he needed to survive being the FSOTUS. But today, Senator Adrian Diaz was in California speaking at a gun control rally. He reached for the button for the 5th floor instead.</p><p> </p><p>On the fifth floor lay the chaos which was Senator Johnathon Schlatt’s office. After Clay’s father took him under his wing back when he was just some young attorney from New York, he had watched him, the youngest member of the senate, and an Independent at that, grow into the title which was the Darling of National Politics, both because of how many people he somehow managed to upset in his bid to get his Senate seat, and also because he was an undoubtedly handsome 32-year-old which all the ladies <em> just loved </em> to swoon over. That made up for all the votes he lost from his use of rather unsavoury language and the fact that he was gay.</p><p> </p><p>“What the fuck are <em> you </em> doing here.” </p><p> </p><p>Clay ignored the senator’s words, opting to walk right past his desk, on which his feet, clad in his favourite worn-down Timberland boots, were propped. His glasses were balanced rather precariously on his nose as he peered through them to some print out he was reading. He slumped down on the armchair in the corner of the office, the senator sending him a dubious eyebrow raise, his face quickly settling into an expression much closer to satisfaction as he eyed the packet of peanut m&amp;ms that Clay had produced from his pocket, quickly chucking them his way. </p><p> </p><p>“Whatcha doing?” Clay watched Schlatt rip the packet open with his teeth, popping one into his mouth.</p><p> </p><p>“You already know more than you should about - <em> this </em> .” He gestured to the mess of papers that littered the desk to the extent that not even an inch of glossy mahogany wood could be seen on the surface. “But what do you <em> actually </em>want?”</p><p> </p><p>“Hmm,” Clay started, reclining back into the armchair and crossing his arms. “Do I really need an excuse to visit my <em> dear old pal?” </em> </p><p> </p><p>“That’s bullshit and we both know it.” Schlatt laughed drily, turning the page he had been scanning.</p><p> </p><p>“How <em> rude </em> of you, I really thought you valued our friendship.”</p><p> </p><p>“Friendship? You’re just one more law student who <em> idolises </em> me.” They both knew this wasn’t true, of course. After spending the summer of 2018 with Schlatt in New York, they built their rather dysfunctional relationship on M&amp;Ms, all-nighters, last-minute drafts and obscure Wii games they had found in the charity store.</p><p> </p><p>“Schlatt! After <em> everything we’ve been through. </em>”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m gonna call security.”</p><p> </p><p>“You wouldn’t <em> dare </em>.” Clay grinned, knowing that it was probably true. Probably.</p><p> </p><p>“Fine then.” Schlatt put down the documents in his hands, swinging his legs down and clasping his hands on the desk, a move which would have been intimidating to practically anyone but Clay. “How about we talk about your little English holiday then.” His gaze tightens on the little emotion that flickered behind Clay’s well-developed emotional mask. “When do I get my wedding invitation?” </p><p> </p><p>“I didn’t come here to be interrogated - I have a question for you.” </p><p> </p><p>Schlatt let out a genuine laugh this time, relaxing his posture slightly, watching how Clay stiffened and the blood ran to his cheeks. They hurried off on a rushed conversation so chock-full of political jargon and half-spoken phrases which didn’t <em> need </em> to be finished, focusing on Richards, a candidate who the right-wing worshipped, and the heir to a rather questionably-large family inheritance. He was almost definitely going to be his mother, the current president’s, largest competitor, and, although he had faith in her, he knew that the up and coming election was going to be tough still. But almost as soon as Clay’s embarrassment had died down, the heat that had so rudely rushed to his cheeks near-subsided, Schlatt just brought it right back up.</p><p> </p><p>“Thanks for making that mess the other day, by the way. I won the office bet as to when your first international fuck up would happen.” </p><p> </p><p>“And just when I thought I could trust you!” Clay gasped dramatically.</p><p> </p><p>“So what’s going on between you two then?” </p><p> </p><p>“What do you mean what’s going on- there <em> is </em> nothing going on.”</p><p> </p><p>“You sound awfully defensive, Clay. Why’s that, if there’s nothing going on?” Schlatt taunted him playfully, sucking on another M&amp;M.</p><p> </p><p>“We made a mistake, we fixed it, it’s all done now. Where’s the issue?” </p><p> </p><p>“Okay, okay!” he held up his hands in mock-defeat. “I get it, he’s attractive.” </p><p> </p><p>“Only if you’re into Disney Princes.” Clay pulled a similar face to that of someone eating sour candy, only causing Schlatt’s smirk to grow.</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, and everyone’s into Disney Princes, aren’t they?” </p><p> </p><p>“<em> I’m </em>not!” </p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, right.” Schlatt arched an eyebrow with the sort of innocence which was undeniably laced with skepticism.</p><p> </p><p>“<em> ‘Yeah, right’ </em>my ass.” </p><p> </p><p>“I don’t know Clay, you seem awfully obsessed with him. Didn’t you keep a magazine on your desk with his face on all summer-</p><p> </p><p>“-that was a coincidence! It just happened to have him on the cover-”</p><p> </p><p>“-oh and you just happened to stare at it for hours on end? And don’t get me <em> started </em> on the dartboard-”</p><p> </p><p>“You are <em> insufferable, </em>Schlatt.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yet you keep on coming back to me, just like all my other exes.” Clay let out a groan but was so very thankful when the political talk restarted.</p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p> </p><p>As he left the building, satisfied with the information he had squeezed out of Schlatt, his phone started to ring. He pulled it out of the back pocket of trousers, not even needing to check the screen to know that it was Niki.</p><p> </p><p>“What’s up?” He asked, sucking in a deep breath of the crisp air, and watching how his breath condensed into a soft cloud as he released it, quickly dissipating into the dark evening.</p><p> </p><p>Niki’s voice was crackly through the phone, “Forgetting something?” </p><p> </p><p>“I don’t think so, I’ve just been to see Schlatt- oh <em> shit </em>, family dinner tonight, right?” </p><p>“Yep. You better hurry or Mom’s gonna get mad ‘cus the food will be cold.” </p><p> </p><p>“Okay,” Clay dragged out the word, “tell her I’ll be there in 15 minutes.” He reluctantly picked up the pace, walking as fast as his very long legs could carry him.</p><p> </p><p>“See you soon!” Niki laughed through the phone, and with that, she hung up.</p><p> </p><p>It was admittedly a little longer than 15 minutes before he arrived at the White House, his cheeks rosy and his fingertips numb; it was a cold evening for late-autumn. He apologised profusely to the rather disappointed sight of his mother, her boyfriend and Niki with the untouched fast-food delivery laid out in front of them, what had become a sort of tradition of their family meals at this point, and his chair was the only one empty, of course.</p><p> </p><p>“Nice of you to finally join us!” Niki teased him, poking him in the arm playfully.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m <em> sorry </em> again that I made you all wait! I was with Schlatt-”</p><p> </p><p>His mother cut him off “-talking about the campaign?” </p><p> </p><p>“Well, yeah. Of course.” He mumbled through a mouthful of burger. He was given a somewhat chiding look from her, but nevertheless, she continued.</p><p> </p><p>“Brilliant. That is exactly what I wanted to talk about.” </p><p> </p><p>“You’re gonna have to be a little more specific than that, Mom.” </p><p> </p><p>“Okay then. To be specific, how would you like a job on the presidential reelection campaign, then?”</p><p> </p><p>The news came as a shock to both of them; that much was clear, but their expressions were far from the same. </p><p> </p><p>“But- he’s still in college?!” Niki exclaimed eyes widened in shock.</p><p> </p><p>“Well exactly,” Clay said impatiently. It was pretty clear that he had been expecting this offer, “Never too early to get some work experience in!”</p><p> </p><p>Their mother nodded knowingly, finishing her mouthful before speaking, “the offer isn't just for Clay, honey.” Niki’s face dropped in what could only be described as dread as the excitement only grew on Clay’s. “Don’t you think it’s time the White House Trio become more than just pretty faces? Y’all have skills; show the country!”</p><p> </p><p>Niki sighed, “Mom-”</p><p> </p><p>“-So what positions, then?” Clay cut her off, practically shaking with anticipation.</p><p> </p><p>“Well, Clay, you know tons about all - this - so we could have you running policy. It’ll be a lot of researching and a lot of writing but you’ve done all that before.”<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>“Oh hell yeah!” </p><p> </p><p>“<em> Clay- </em>” </p><p> </p><p>Niki was cut off yet again, this time by her mother. “Niki, I was thinking we could have you working in communications, since you’re majoring in mass comm. You’ll be analysing the audience, working with the media outlets-”</p><p> </p><p>“<em> Mom </em>!” Niki shouted indignantly. </p><p> </p><p>“What?”</p><p> </p><p>“I go to college and- and I'm trying to find a part-time job right now-”</p><p> </p><p>“Well yes of course, but so does Clay and he’s fine with it and think of all the connections you’ll make! Getting a job out of college will be-”</p><p> </p><p>“ When did I ever say that I wanted to do this? I mean- it’s kinda a big decision. And you realise if I do this I basically lose any chance I had of neutrality and with it any job in journalism ever?” Niki sighed, languid. Clay was half-listening to the conversation, half zoning out but he was drawn away from both from a buzzing in his pocket. He grabbed his phone, assuming it was just Floris.</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span class="u"> <b>Unknown Number</b> </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Hi </em>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>Clay frowned. He didn’t remember giving anyone his number recently, except maybe a few people in his class he had to work on a group project with. He typed out his response as subtly as possible, his glance flitting between his phone in his lap and the others, thankful that Niki and his mother were both pretty invested in their current conversation.</p><p> </p><p>
  <span class="u"> <b>Unknown Number</b> </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> who is this? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>He switched his phone off, reaching for a chip, but it buzzed yet again. He glanced to his mother, then to Niki, then back to his mother before turning his phone on again as curiosity got the better of him.</p><p> </p><p>
  <span class="u"> <b>Unknown Number</b> </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> It’s George </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> george who? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Which George do you think? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> is it… english george? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Yeah it’s “English George” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> like, the george I went to visit the other week? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> For God’s sake Clay, do I need to spell it out for you? It’s Prince George </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> okay. thank you. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>He paused for a second, quickly changing the contact to something much more suitable, having to suppress his smirk and pretend to be involved in whatever the argument had evolved into now.</p><p> </p><p>
  <span class="u"> <b>royal pain in the ass</b> </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Surely you don’t know that many Georges? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> well </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I can’t exactly ask just anyone if they’re the fucking Prince of England, can I? </em>
</p><p>
  <em> how do you think that would go down with one of my classmates </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> That’s fair enough. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> I didn’t think I’d ever live to see a day where you agreed with something I said </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Believe me, neither did I. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> so what do you want then? </em>
</p><p>
  <em> i’m guessing there’s a reason you’re texting me </em>
</p><p>
  <em> ... </em>
</p><p>
  <em> wait, 2 secs </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“...hang on- Clay! No phones at the table!” </p><p>He looked up at his mother’s chiding words to meet yet another disapproving glare - <em> I seem to be getting a lot of those, </em>his internal dialogue noted as he resisted the urge to see what the buzzing of a new message had brought with it.</p><p><br/>
“Before you turn it off, can you tell Floris that-”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh- I- err... I wasn’t actually messaging Floris.” He admitted bashfully, turning the phone in his hands.</p><p> </p><p>“Who the hell were you messaging then?” </p><p> </p><p>“I was- umm- <em> someone from my class </em>!”</p><p> </p><p>Niki looked skeptical, but she dropped it nevertheless, turning to their mother to continue the argument that they had been having before. Clay sat through the rest of the dinner fidgeting impatiently, itching to leave and see what the Prince had to say, purely out of curiosity, no other reason. When everyone was finally done he hurriedly said “goodnight” (despite the fact that it was barely 8 pm - he wasn’t planning on leaving his room until the morning) and rushed up to his bedroom.</p><p> </p><p>
  <span class="u"> <b>royal pain in the ass</b> </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> I just thought you might want to see these: </em>
</p><p>
  <em> [attachment: 2 images] </em>
</p><p> </p><p> Clay couldn’t help the grin that inevitably made its way onto his face. Attached were two rather blurry photos of what was most definitely the cats that they had warmed to at the animal shelter.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> you got them both!  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> you had enough sense to get Twix, glad to see you finally made a decent decision on your own. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Oh fuck off. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>  … </em>
</p><p>
  <em> :] </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I need a new name for Twix though. Apparently, it isn’t a good enough name for a pet of the royal family. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> well tell whoever said that to suck my dick </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Clay!!! </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> okay, okay </em>
</p><p>
  <em> … </em>
</p><p>
  <em> did you have any ideas? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Not really…  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> That’s one of the reasons I messaged you. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Aside from those cat photos you asked for. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> i expect daily updates on them </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> High maintenance much </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I see why you don’t have a girlfriend. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> like you’re any better off! </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Well, this week the tabloids seem to think I’m simultaneously dating some girl I met at a gala, Alastair, and even YOU! </em>
</p><p>
  <em> How absurd. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I digress. Cat names? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> hmm... </em>
</p><p>
  <em> lola? </em>
</p><p>
  <em> pepper? </em>
</p><p>
  <em> what about patches? </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I like patches </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> I like Patches too!  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Patches it is, then. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> She’s being a little shy, she keeps on running away from me. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> looks like she has the right idea </em>
</p><p>
  <em> obviously she likes me better, just like everyone else </em>
</p><p>
  <em> … </em>
</p><p>
  <em> shit I have an essay due tmrw which I haven’t even started </em>
</p><p>
  <em> u better send me cat pictures every day or I will fly back to the land of tea and crumpets and steal them from you </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> It’s only been 2 weeks and you’re already running back to me ;] </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Didn’t know you missed me that much. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Have fun with your essay. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> I won’t. </em>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>We're back babey! A lot of the first half of this chapter is closer to the actual book than I would have liked it to be, but unfortunately I am a brit who is rather clueless with American Politics.<br/>I'm gonna try and do slightly longer chapters from now on, and I'll probably aim for 2 chapters a week? We'll see how that goes. </p><p>I hope you are all having a fantastic day, and if you're not, tomorrow will undeniably be better :)</p><p>Much love,</p><p>Arti &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Chapter 9</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>“I’m so proud of you!” Niki basically squealed, “You made a friend!!” </p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>As the long weeks of autumn dragged into December, what started as daily updates on the cats turned into a near-constant exchange of teasing quips and witty comments. It would be too much to say that he </span>
  <em>
    <span>liked </span>
  </em>
  <span>George, but he did enjoy the quick-paced arguments that they fell into, occasionally dispersed with cat pictures. Whether it was comparing George to Professor Snape instead of paying attention in one of his lectures, or his mother exasperatingly giving up after Clay not-so-subtly suppressed giggles for the third time during the PowerPoint presentation she was giving him on his up-and-coming election campaign, he couldn’t deny that it was the most fun he’d had with anyone in - well - a rather long time. Aside from Floris and Niki, of course, but they didn't </span>
  <em>
    <span>really </span>
  </em>
  <span>count.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And it wasn’t just meaningless teasings. He started to find that there was substance to George, he was by no means the shell of a person that the ‘fact sheet’ and the media had made him out to be, far from it. A lot of the actually interesting stuff was either omitted or straight up wrong. He learned that, although he liked Toad in the Hole, his very favourite food was from the street vendors that he would sneak out to visit on warm summer’s evenings. He learned that he had always had a fascination with minerals and gemstones, the countryside, natural formations - his father had loved the great outdoors and always encouraged his passion, something he was thankful for. He almost took Computer Science out of sheer spite because his internet usage was pretty limited as a child; this was shocking to Clay. He vowed to teach him Minecraft when they got the chance, apparently, it was necessary. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They had some things in common; siblings to be one. George’s brothers would often make their way into the conversations, Prince Wilbur especially, and to George’s dismay Clay could often relate to Will more, seeing as he held his role as “the annoying older brother” to Niki very dearly. Someone who was brought up, even more, was his friend Alastair, or Eret, as George called him. George had spent his gap year travelling the world, visiting charities Eret had either started or very generously funded. Clay never failed to tease him about the peculiarities of their friendship - how someone so eccentric, so confident in themselves, so far from a Prince could become friends with someone who could drone on for hours about the minor details of Harry Potter and The Chamber of Secrets. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>As much as he disliked it, he found himself rushing to check for new messages after every lecture, every class, every meeting and if none were there, well, he’d send one himself. He often reached for interview quotes, they were easy enough to twist into something humorous, as well as unsuspecting candids shot by sneaky paparazzi, they were always great to poke fun at. And of course, George would send the same back: Clay was honestly shocked at how sarcastic he was when he didn’t need to have his “prince” act on. He enjoyed it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>After a while, Clay realised that George knew just as much about him as he knew about George. He shouldn’t have been surprised when George brought up things he hadn’t realised he talked about so much - namely Niki and Floris and other members of the White House like his mother and Darryl. He shouldn’t have been surprised that, after texting more-or-less daily for a few months he had basically figured out his schedule, whether it was to tell him to concentrate in class rather than sending him memes or to go to sleep because it was almost 4 am. And he found himself doing the same with George; he knew that he generally woke up between 8 and 8:30, that he couldn’t text for an hour in the evening since he was having a formal dinner with Phillip and William, that sometimes when Clay himself went to sleep George was still awake, and it wasn’t because he wanted an early morning. It was strange, he thought, that texting someone he thought he disliked so much had practically fallen into place as part of his daily routine, but he didn’t let himself dwell on it.</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay that is the fourth time in the past minute that you have made that weird - </span>
  <em>
    <span>smile</span>
  </em>
  <span> - face at your phone, I know my memes are good but they're not that good.” Niki spoke curiously as she swiped Clay’s phone from his grip before he had the time to move it away.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Clay quickly started to protest, “Wait Niki-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Is that </span>
  <em>
    <span>Prince George</span>
  </em>
  <span> you’re texting?!” She practically shouted with glee, scampering away as Clay hurriedly reacted to grab his phone back.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Give me my phone back</span>
  </em>
  <span>! </span>
  <em>
    <span>Nik</span>
  </em>
  <span>!” He yelled, Niki letting out a squeal as he grabbed a fistful of the back of her jumper and pulled her towards him, the hardwood floor and her socks playing to his advantage as she skidded back into him. He wrapped his arms around her tightly and snatched the phone back, shoving it in his back pocket before letting her go.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You are so </span>
  <em>
    <span>annoying</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>You</span>
  </em>
  <span> didn’t answer my question!” Niki smirked as she threw herself onto the sofa.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Which question?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p><span>“Don’t play dumb with me.” </span><em><span>Busted. </span></em><span>Clay had really hoped that she was going to have forgotten. “Were you, or were you not, messaging </span><em><span>Prince George</span></em><span> and making those </span><em><span>weird</span></em> <em><span>smiley</span></em><span> faces at his messages?”</span></p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Clay sighed. “Yes, okay, I was messaging George.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m so proud of you!” Niki basically squealed, “You made a friend!!” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What do you mean- I </span>
  <em>
    <span>have</span>
  </em>
  <span> friends!” He shot back defensively.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh yeah? Who?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I have </span>
  <em>
    <span>you-</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Niki practically snorted. “I’m your </span>
  <em>
    <span>sister</span>
  </em>
  <span>. You have to be friends with me-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Floris?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, he doesn’t count.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I- umm I have Nick?” It was a last-ditch attempt at proving his point, and a feeble one, no doubt.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Come on, Clay, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Nick</span>
  </em>
  <span>? I swear you haven’t texted him in, like, a year.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Clay groaned. She was right, of course. Nick was his highschool best friend. They were close - </span>
  <em>
    <span>very</span>
  </em>
  <span> close - and they used to do everything together. But alas, he moved back to Texas with his family after high school in Florida to go to the University of Houston and Clay, of course, moved to the White House. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Either way, it doesn’t matter, you’ve made a new friend! So when did you two stop hating each other- I can’t wait to tell Floris this, he won’t believe it!” Niki babbled excitedly.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m leaving, bye!” Clay shouted behind him as he rushed to slam the door and head up to his bedroom before she could question him any further, hearing the string of protests fade as he got further away.</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Clay was surprised by how little teasing he got about the whole him-texting-his-enemy situation. He suspected that it was because the pair of them were so scared about getting in the way of his first real friendship outside their trio in over a year that they opted to leave him be. Clay was slightly suspicious of this, of course, but god was he thankful of it. So, one winter’s afternoon when he got a text in all caps (something the Prince, with all his Prince-y manners, never did) the trio allowed him to excuse himself from their highly competitive game of monopoly. He heard Floris mutter something about “trouble in paradise”, but ignored it.</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span class="u">
    <b>royal pain in the ass</b>
  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>CLAY </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I NEED HELP</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>???</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>&lt;attachment: 1 image&gt;  </span>
  </em>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Without really thinking about the fact that they had never spoken over the phone before, Clay had pressed the “call” button and, after only a couple of rings, the line went through.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>George</span>
  </em>
  <span>!!” He half-laughed-half-shouted. “I thought something had happened, you </span>
  <em>
    <span>idiot</span>
  </em>
  <span>! Like - I don’t know - something </span>
  <em>
    <span>bad</span>
  </em>
  <span>!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Something bad did happen!” Despite the added grain that is customary when calling across an ocean, George’s voice held all the enchantment it had every time that they had met in person, with his stupid round vowels and his perfect pronunciation- and Clay hadn’t realised quite how much he’d grown to like it in the absence of hearing it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah but I thought you were in </span>
  <em>
    <span>danger</span>
  </em>
  <span> or something! Not that one of the cats trashed your curtains!” Clay shut his bedroom door behind him and flopped onto his bed, lying on his front with his elbows propping himself up like the protagonist of a chick-flick texting her crush.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Well I’m </span>
  <em>
    <span>sorry</span>
  </em>
  <span>!” George’s sarcastic tone made it very clear that he was, indeed, not sorry.  “Nice to know that you were </span>
  <em>
    <span>worried</span>
  </em>
  <span> about me though.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I- wha-” Clay spluttered in defense, his cheeks burning hot red, not that George could see them, “of cou- of course I wasn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>worried</span>
  </em>
  <span> about you, </span>
  <em>
    <span>dumbass</span>
  </em>
  <span>!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh, it’s okay, Clay. You can say that you were. I won’t judge you.” George’s smirk was audible through the phone, and Clay </span>
  <em>
    <span>hated</span>
  </em>
  <span> it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Listen here you little </span>
  <em>
    <span>shit-</span>
  </em>
  <span> it is perfectly reasonable for me to- to worry when you send me ‘Clay help’ in all caps- you’re literally a Prince! For all I know someone could be - I don’t know -  bombing the palace or something!” Clay’s words were rushed, and the little giggle he heard through the phone when he stumbled on a word made him burn with more frustration at the playful torment.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I think that means you care about me!” George replied lightly, snickering at the exasperated sigh that Clay let out. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I- you know what? Whatever.” Clay’s vexed words were still teasing, far from the harsh words that the pair would agonise each other with initially - those held real feelings - but it was clear to them both now that the teasing was all in good humour. “What the fuck happened to your curtains anyways - which one did it?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Which do you think? It was Patches, the little </span>
  <em>
    <span>twat</span>
  </em>
  <span> is currently watching me smugly- she knows what she did!!” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Don’t call her a </span>
  <em>
    <span>twat</span>
  </em>
  <span>!” Clay gasped mockingly.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You sound so dumb saying ‘twat’”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>You know what</span>
  </em>
  <span>- I might just hang-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“-No no I was kidding </span>
  <em>
    <span>don’t</span>
  </em>
  <span>” George begged quickly.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Fine</span>
  </em>
  <span>. But only if you send me more pictures of the cats.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They talked for an hour or so, much of it wasted with George giving commentary on the cat’s every move, letting Clay speak to them through the phone and trying to record Oscar’s loud purrs. Their conversation drifted to their days, the news and trivialities that neither cared about much, simply enjoying the other’s presence, and of course their quick-paced teasing.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When it came to hanging up, neither really knew what to do. After far too many ‘okay’s and ‘goodbye’s than was necessary, the phone line went dead and Clay slumped back into his bed. His feelings were conflicted - he wasn’t sure if he liked how easy it was to talk to the Prince, and honestly, it scared him a little how close they had become. So, like anyone else trying to cope with complex emotions involving new friendships and British Princes… he suppressed them as deep down as he could and busied his mind with an essay he had to write for class.</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Although their constant texting continued, as Clay had suspected, the call was a one-off, for the time being at least.. They had become accustomed to the other’s constant digital presence in their lives, and it was nice, Clay thought. He wouldn’t use anything stronger than the lukewarm ‘nice’ though. That would be far too complementary to George and he wouldn’t be seen dead </span>
  <em>
    <span>complementing</span>
  </em>
  <span> the prince.  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The next of their calls was a couple weeks later; it was Christmas eve. The sun had just set over Washington, the air was frosted and crisp and the faint hum of joyful carollers could just about be heard over shouting coming from downstairs. It was tradition that, despite his parent’s divorce, they celebrated Christmas as a family. Due to prior commitments (as is customary in a family consisting of two college students, a member of the Senate and the President of the United States) they had their Christmas dinner on the 24th, and although it started out jovial, like all good things, that came to an end. You see, as much as Clay loved his parents, he begrudgingly admitted that there was a reason for their divorce. That reason was that they really couldn’t manage more than an hour of amicable conversation without falling into an argument. So Clay, having his Christmas dinner ruined by his arguing parents, really needed to talk to </span>
  <em>
    <span>someone</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Of course, there was Niki, but she was still at the table and that would mean entering the warzone that was the dining room at that moment. Floris was celebrating Christmas with a friend from his boarding school in the Alps and he didn’t want to bother him, not that he could with the lack of service. He hadn’t even sent a singular message to Nick in the past year and so that only left one person…</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He didn’t really expect the phone to go through if he was being honest. The gap between each pitiful ring seemed longer and longer and just as he was about to give up hope-</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hello?” George’s voice was low and soft, almost a whisper but not quite. “Clay? Are you- are you there?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He had been stuck too deep in his own thoughts for that moment, but he pulled himself up enough to answer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hi- umm sorry George.”</span>
  <span><br/>
<br/>
</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What have </span>
  <em>
    <span>possibly</span>
  </em>
  <span> I done to be graced with your presence?” There was some shuffling in the background, questioning mumbles and rustles of presumably some sort of packaging. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh- hi, uhh… fuck it’s- like- 2 am for y’all isn’t it and it’s Christmas Eve and everything- you know what, I should probably just-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Clay</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Stop</span>
  </em>
  <span>. It’s all good. I was still awake, everyone else is in bed- except Will, he’s been chilling with me-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hi Clay!” what Clay presumed to be Prince Wilbur laughed, the voice a little further away to the microphone than George’s.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hi, Wilbur.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span> “George and I were just watching Bake Off- has he told you he’s got Christmas pyjamas on-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Will</span>
  </em>
  <span>! Shut up!” Something hit George - and the phone and muffled the call for a second. Clay guessed it was a pillow. “So, what’s up then?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh god- I don’t know, it’s gonna sound dumb now. Sorry, this is super weird but I just didn’t know who else to call and- I know we’re not really friends and we don’t exactly talk about all - </span>
  <em>
    <span>this</span>
  </em>
  <span> - but my Dad came home for Christmas like always and, you know, my Mom and Dad are divorced so of course they started arguing and they’re at each other throats </span>
  <em>
    <span>constantly</span>
  </em>
  <span> and I just wish that it would stop sometimes I…” Clay trailed off, suddenly aware that he had been rambling and that the other end of the line had been silent.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Wait- hang on, Clay, give me a second- </span>
  <em>
    <span>Will, can I have a moment? … Yes you can take whatever you want… thank you! </span>
  </em>
  <span>Okay, I’m back.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Clay takes a deep breath. He knows that this will change their relationship; they’ve never exactly talked about anything personal before, but he goes on. He told George about the divorce, about when it happened, why it happened, how he felt. He told him about those weird days when his Mom would storm out and they’d all be worried sick until she drove home at 3 am with words laced with guilt about how she made them scared, and he told him about the strange days between arguments when they would all have a brilliant time at the beach or playing crazy golf or something of the sort and although those memories of his family, whole, were ones that he’d always treasure, there was always something off about them. He talked and he complained and he reminisced and before he knew it, a whole hour had passed. Talking to George was easy. Every silence was comfortable. Every word exchanged, natural. They had fallen into a steady pattern of Clay rambling and George filling the moments where he paused to take a breath or to think or even to compose himself with hums of agreement.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You know, it sounds like you did your best, to be honest.” George told him as he finished his tirade, and Clay was taken aback. Sure, he got praised all the time that he was great or intelligent or talented but it wasn’t often that he got told that he was </span>
  <em>
    <span>good enough.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You- you think so?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I do, yeah.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I- hang on a second.” Clay stopped himself saying what he had planned to as the door slowly creaked open and Niki poked her head around the door. “Wait- </span>
  <em>
    <span>give me a moment, Nik</span>
  </em>
  <span>. I’ve gotta go-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Clay-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Thanks, dude, seriously-” And with that, he hung up.</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Sorry this took so long! I had a lovely combination of writer's block and tons of schoolwork but we're back! I know that this was a bit of a filler but I don't think that the next one will be long - it's a juicy one for sure. I guess I don't do this much but if you are enjoying it, please consider maybe leaving kudos? Also if you do want to be notified for future updates (since I don't really have a  schedule!) perhaps you could subscribe too!</p><p>Have a fantastic day,</p><p>Arti &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Chapter 10</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>"...And his brain simply short-circuited."</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>
  <span>Normally, that awkward limbo between Christmas and the New Year is spent lazing around, sleeping off hangovers and binging on leftovers. But if you thought that the end of the year meant a break for the Clairmont-Diaz’s, then you would stand corrected. It was only the day after Boxing day when the grand fir tree standing proud in the living room was taken down and preparations began. Preparations for what, you may ask? Well, on New Year’s Eve a rather coveted party was being thrown for “The Influential Youth of Today,” and with Clay, Niki, and Floris doing the planning? Everyone knew that it was going to be good. The week passed in a frenzy of phone calls to suppliers, the Christmas attire the White House had so proudly worn for the previous month swapped out for swathes of silver and gold, honouring the finale of one year and the beginning of the next, celebrating “The Influential Youth of Today”. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>It was the day before New Year’s Eve, and Clay had managed to worm his way out of the iron grip of Niki’s commandeering, only temporarily, of course, but it was admittedly a little bit of a relief to have a moment to himself. He pulled out his phone after grabbing a glass of water, swivelling mindlessly on one of the leather barstools by the kitchen counter.</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span class="u">
    <b>royal pain in the ass</b>
  </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>&lt;attachment: 1 image&gt;</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Reckon you could make that smile any faker? </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Clay couldn’t help but chuckle under his breath. The constant digs at each other kept him on his feet at least. The attachment was one of the press photos from an interview which he had expressed his immense… lack of interest in to George multiple times prior to the event. He took a second to create a good comeback, before closing “messages'' only to open “Instagram” and screenshotting George’s latest post before returning to the conversation. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>&lt;attachment: screenshot&gt;</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>reckon your fashion sense could be any more boring?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>literally tho, I swear all you wear is dull colors and black suits</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Well I’m sorry!! I have a reputation to uphold.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>a reputation which would only be improved by some style lolll</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Whatever. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Maybe I’ll try something a little more out-there sometime, just for you.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>i’m sure all your fans will go wild</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>And with that, Niki stormed into the kitchen, yanking his phone away and ordering him around with authority rivalling an army commander. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>On the day of the party, it was only worse. Tensions were high as the time guests would start to arrive drew closer, tempers were short and the air was practically buzzing.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Clay - come here.” Niki shouted out and only a second later Clay rushed in, almost face-planting into the door. He knew now was not the time to keep her waiting. “Here- take this,” she shoved a couple of sheets of paper into his hands, “check through the guest list, make sure no-one’s been missed, nothing misspelt et cetera et cetera- you know what to do!” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yes ma’am!” Clay saluted with a shit-eating grin and Niki only rolled her eyes before hurrying away in a whirlwind of blond hair and ring binders. He followed each name with his finger, checking the spelling, any dietary requirements and on the whole it looked fine until-</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Niki</span>
  </em>
  <span>!!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What?” She shouted back with a huff of annoyance, echoing footsteps approaching.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I wa- wh- why the </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck</span>
  </em>
  <span> is Prince George on here?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>If looks could kill, Niki would be long gone. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What do you mean ‘why is he on here?’ because he’s your friend! I couldn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> invite your new bestie now, could I?” She smirked, watching as his dumbfounded gaze travelled to her, back to the paper, and back to her, the sputtering and choking cogs in his brain practically visible as they clunked and heaved trying to process the information.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh my </span>
  <em>
    <span>gosh</span>
  </em>
  <span>! I can’t believe you!” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What do you mean I did this for </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span>!” Niki howled with the sort of laughter which is uncontrollable, all laboured gasps and tears pricking the corners of her eyes. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You could have at least </span>
  <em>
    <span>told me</span>
  </em>
  <span>!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You would have said </span>
  <em>
    <span>no</span>
  </em>
  <span>!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I hate you so much. And Floris. I hate Floris too. I bet he had a part in this.” Clay was pouting like a little child throwing a temper tantrum. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hate me all you want but this wasn’t Flo actually,” Niki paused for a second, gathering her composure so that she could speak a coherent sentence, “he was against inviting the Prince in the first place.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“He </span>
  <em>
    <span>was</span>
  </em>
  <span>?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, something to do with the fact that you wouldn’t have wanted him there, and that he’s stuck up and all that- I don’t think he likes the Prince very much- I mean you’ve been talking shit about him for years! I’m not surprised- oh shit- the people delivering the canapés will be here any minute-” and with that, her rambles were cut short and she’d left before Clay had even had a second to comprehend anything that she’d said.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span class="u">
    <b>royal pain in the ass</b>
  </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>just found out you n your friend are coming to the party later lmao</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>And here I was thinking that you were asking to see me again.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>yeah you wish </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>So who was it who invited me then?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>take a wild guess. go on.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Niki and Floris?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>of course</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>well just niki</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>it seems floris actually listened to everything i told him about you</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>About how much you love me? ;]</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>bout how i hated your guts for the past 4 years</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Does that mean that you don’t now?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>???</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You said hated not hate.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>don't push it</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Okay, okay.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Eret’s excited, you know.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Really wants to meet Floris in particular, something to do with being a fan of how he thinks and all his computing skills and how that could help a charity he’s setting up?</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I’ll be honest, I might have zoned out whilst he was telling me.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Let's hope he doesn’t hate Eret as much as he hates me</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>i guess we’ll see tonight then</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>gtg, niki’s told me to go and help bring a delivery in or something</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>See you later!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>It would have been all but futile to attempt to stifle the grin that broke out when Clay first saw George that evening. The night was young, the room didn’t stink of vomit and booze yet, and everyone was still in that polite introductory stage, not quite inebriated enough to start embarrassing themselves in front of that one person that they particularly liked. Clay had just been making civil conversation with a rising singer who had become wildly successful in the past year and had used the money and fame that came with it to donate to charities, bring awareness to pressing social issues and generally just be a good person. Of course, they were </span>
  <em>
    <span>interesting </span>
  </em>
  <span>but Clay was just itching for an excuse to get away. That was until he saw the familiar sight of a short brunette hesitantly walk through the doorway, flanked by another man who was taller than him, hell, probably taller than </span>
  <em>
    <span>Clay. </span>
  </em>
  <span>So with a quick apology to the singer, he weaved his way past blockbuster stars, social activists, influencers, sporting heroes and all the likes before reaching his targets.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Fancy seeing you here!” he sauntered up to the duo, watching as the nervous look on George’s face dissipated into something much closer to excitement. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Clay! Meet Eret. Eret, Clay.” George gestured between the two.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It’s lovely to meet you.” Eret laughed, Clay assumed due to the fact that they both, of course, knew who the other was, as he stuck out his hand. His voice was deeper than Clay had expected, soft and smooth, with a similar accent to George.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It’s nice to meet you too!” Clay shook his hand firmly, before turning to George. “You wore something different,” he stated, and it was true. Rather than the plain black suit and white shirt combo he so commonly wore, George was sporting a pair of navy dress pants with a boxy, striped, short-sleeved dress shirt tucked in.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah. You said I should, didn’t you?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I did- yeah. It looks- it looks good.” Clay scratched his neck, his face flushing. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah- you do too… you look good too I mean. Green looks good on you.” George shot back, his eyes darting to each guest behind Clay, the drinks tables, waiters serving canapés - anything but </span>
  <em>
    <span>him</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Prince George! Eret! Welcome to the party!” Niki laughed as she walked up behind Clay and he let out a silent sigh of relief, so glad that something had somewhat cleared the tension.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh- um hi Niki!” George smiled. It was a polite smile, different to the one he had given Clay. Clay didn’t know how he felt about that. “And Floris! Hello! Thank you so much for inviting me”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hello, Your Royal Highness,” Floris responded flatly, gravitating closer to Clay’s side and shooting him an uncertain look.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Floris, Niki, I don’t believe we’ve met before. I’m Eret.” He introduced himself again, reaching his hand out. “Floris, I hope you don’t mind me asking but about that website you made-” Floris’ eyes lit up at the mention of his project, leading the taller away from the small group which had formed.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Well, at least they’ve made friends- I should probably go and greet some more of the guests,” Niki told them dismissively, turning to leave.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Niki! You said I wouldn’t have to </span>
  <em>
    <span>babysit</span>
  </em>
  <span> him.” Clay whined, but there was an air of playfulness in his voice.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I think </span>
  <em>
    <span>I’ll</span>
  </em>
  <span> be babysitting </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span> if this goes anything like the wedding-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh </span>
  <em>
    <span>come on now</span>
  </em>
  <span>-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Don’t have sex anywhere I might hear it!” Niki chuckled as she walked away from the protests coming from the pair, the constant music and chatter quickly masking them.</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>A couple of hours and a few drinks had loosened up the awkwardness which previously hung around George and Clay. Despite his fears about having to “babysit” the prince, he had not spoken more than a few words to anyone else, nor did he feel the need to. Conversation with him came easily; it was natural, and he had almost forgotten why he had previously hated him. Their words were complemented by gentle swaying to the beat of the music, no more than subtle head-bobbing and shoulders moving side-to-side, Clay occasionally singing along and George bashfully admitting that he was unfamiliar with each of the songs.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The music changed yet again to a song which made Clay’s face light up with gleeful recognition. Before George had the time to question, he’d started singing along.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What the fuck are apple bottom jeans?” George shouted over the music, letting out a soft gasp as Clay grabbed his forearms, one Clay didn’t miss. “Wait Clay- Clay!” George let out a half-scream half-laugh as Clay pulled George lower and lower with him at the instruction of the song. “What the fuck!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You're telling me that you’ve never danced to this before-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No, I haven’t-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“While a bunch of teenagers grinded against each other-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No! Clay I- haven’t danced to this- nor have I seen a- a bunch of teenagers </span>
  <em>
    <span>grind</span>
  </em>
  <span> to it!” George looked horrified which Clay found hilarious. He was still holding George’s forearms, Clay noticed, his grip was soft and his thumb rubbing circles into the crook of his elbow but he was too drunk to think anything of it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Your childhood was </span>
  <em>
    <span>so boring!” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Clay laughed softly, moving George back and forward in time with the song. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Do I need to remind you that I’m a </span>
  <em>
    <span>Prince</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Clay?” He winced at the word as if it were sour in his mouth. “I didn’t have time to go to- to lots of </span>
  <em>
    <span>parties</span>
  </em>
  <span> and everything like you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Well then, I guess I have a lot to show you then!” Clay’s voice was low, his body so close to George that he could practically feel the other’s breath fan across his face. The moment was far too intimate for what it was, but neither could bring themselves to correct it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You know-” George started, before breaking out into giggles and attempting to compose himself, “you wanna know something funny?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Sure,” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m </span>
  <em>
    <span>colourblind</span>
  </em>
  <span>! The reason I wear so few colours is because I can’t- I can’t even see half of them! And wouldn’t it be funny if I went out wearing a weird colour combination or something-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re </span>
  <em>
    <span>colourblind</span>
  </em>
  <span>?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yep! I suspected your suit was green, but I had to ask Eret first to make sure-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But before Clay had the chance to question what that meant, they were so rudely interrupted: “Two minutes ‘til midnight!” Niki called out, the atmosphere shifting and the dancing slowing as the music ceased.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Got a New Year’s resolution?” Clay asked, releasing George with a reluctance he forced himself not to dwell on.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I haven’t. Have you?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I guess I want to try and be a little more impulsive- stop overthinking everything, you know?” Clay told him bashfully.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That’s a good resolution, actually-” George started, but was interrupted by a girl tapping on Clay’s shoulder, a gaggle of similar-looking nondescript blondes following behind. Clay vaguely recognised her as the star from a TV show, maybe Riverdale? Stranger Things? He hadn’t seen either but remembered the names being thrown around.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hi- Clayton!” she giggled, “And- umm- Your Royal Highness.” She was a little more subdued, dropping her head slightly in an act of respect, albeit a confused one.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh- there’s no need for that </span>
  <em>
    <span>formality</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” George laughed, his words on the verge of slurring into each other.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I- okay, how do I ask this- I was wondering if- err- you would give me a new year’s kiss- it was a dare you-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Sure!” Clay chuckled, watching as George’s face contorted into something between shock and - </span>
  <em>
    <span>something else</span>
  </em>
  <span>. “Why not start my resolution a little sooner, huh? Do something impulsive?” he spoke again, his voice a little lower, only meant for </span>
  <em>
    <span>George</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>As the countdown started he murmured a quick “fuck it” and pulled the girl in, placing a kiss firmly on her lips as the cheering started. They both separated in a bout of giggles, but when he turned to face George, he was nowhere to be seen.</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Clay ignored it for a few minutes, finding Niki and trading descriptions of their own evenings, but after almost half an hour the alcohol had all but worn off, and the lack of George was slightly concerning. After checking the main hall, the bathrooms, the corridors, he ventured outside, following tracks in the snow to a silhouette stood under the skeletal trees that winter had left barren.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“George? Is that you?” Clay called out, hurrying towards the hunched figure who visibly perked up at the sound breaking the muffled silence of snow.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Clay?” He turned to face him, Clay’s face falling at the shivering frame.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“George! What are you doing out here? God- you’re only wearing short sleeves-” Before he had a moment to protest, Clay’s moss-green suit jacket was wrapped around the smaller, almost drowning him. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Wait no- now you’re gonna be cold!” George managed a dry chuckle, although it was somewhat halfhearted as the cold cut it short.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What are you doing out here at this time- in this weather!” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I- I guess I needed to clear my head.” He sighed, watching the little puffs of condensation formed at each word, each breath.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Clear your head? From what?” Clay probed, even though it was clear George was reluctant to speak.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know how to say it-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Are you alright?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>George sighed again, dejected, flinching at the contact of Clay’s hand on his shoulder-  what was intended to be an act of comfort felt like something </span>
  <em>
    <span>more</span>
  </em>
  <span>. “Yes, I’m fine…”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Did something happen during that kiss I had with her? That was when you left, right?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p><span>“Oh my God Clay, you are so fucking </span><em><span>clueless</span></em><span>, aren’t you-” George’s voice was raised higher than Clay had ever heard it, thick and cracking with emotion and tiredness. “You just- you have </span><em><span>no</span></em> <em><span>clue</span></em><span>!” </span></p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“George…”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No, you are so fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>clueless</span>
  </em>
  <span>, you have </span>
  <em>
    <span>no idea </span>
  </em>
  <span>what you’re doing to me!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Ge-” but he was cut off by soft lips on his, fingertips ghosting his jawline, a warm chest pressed against his.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And his brain simply </span>
  <em>
    <span>short circuited.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Now in this moment, Clay didn’t think. In fact, he didn’t trust himself to think about anything at all. He just </span>
  <em>
    <span>did</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  It was all automatic; his arms wrapped tight around the smaller, his hands splayed across George’s back practically spanning across the whole surface, side to side. He revelled in the way George’s lips moved against his so </span>
  <em>
    <span>hungrily</span>
  </em>
  <span>, as if he was </span>
  <em>
    <span>desperate</span>
  </em>
  <span> for it, as if he couldn’t get enough and Clay, in return, gave him all that and </span>
  <em>
    <span>more</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They pulled apart slowly, with reluctance, Clay’s arms still wrapped around George, mossy eyes meeting chestnut. But as soon as the moment was created, it was broken. George pushed out of Clay’s grasp and hurried away without another word, leaving Clay standing there, half an hour past midnight on the first of January, wondering what the </span>
  <em>
    <span>hell</span>
  </em>
  <span> just happened.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I finished this at 10 past midnight my time so apologies for any errors, I'll go back and proofread tomorrow!<br/>I hope you are all having a wonderful day and enjoyed the chapter!</p><p>Arti &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Chapter 11</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>It was hard to focus when George plagued his thoughts like some sort of addiction, craving something, craving more.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>
  <span>It took Clay 3 days to even start to mentally deal with the events of New Year’s. The first day was spent battling a grand old hangover, brain fuzzy on far too many paracetamols and protesting every thought that ran through it. The second, he did his usual busying himself with far too much to even stop and think why, he just passed it off as concern about his role in the election. It was only on the third day when he caught himself checking his phone for the seventh time in the past half an hour that he came to terms with the fact that he wasn’t just looking at the time.</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey- um Floris, can I talk to you for a second about- like about something private?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Clay had decided that the best way to deal with these feelings would be to talk about them. He wasn’t gonna say what happened of course, that would be </span>
  <em>
    <span>too</span>
  </em>
  <span> much, but Floris had always been so open about his bisexuality so he seemed the perfect person to come to.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh yeah of course! Come on, shall we go to your room then?” He responded, a little concerned but just as welcoming as usual. He jumped up, grabbed Clay’s hand and pulled them all the way until they both were sat down on Dream’s bed, leaning haphazardly against the wall and propped up pillows. “What’s up?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I- well…” Clay stuttered and stammered, trying to gather the right words to form a coherent sentence.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No rush! You know you can tell me anything, right?” he reached for Clay’s hand, squeezing it gently.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Thanks, Flo… How do I say this- how did you know you were bisexual?” Clay shuffled in his seat as he asked earnestly. He wasn’t used to being this open, this vulnerable, and it felt strange. It wasn’t that he kept things to himself; he would take any opportunity to talk about himself! It was just rare for him to reach this level of emotion, to be this raw.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh-” Floris started, brushing a few white-flecked brown strands out of where they were laying dangerously close to his eyes as his concern dropped, “Oh! So I’m guessing you’ve been doing some thinking lately, huh.” he grinned, turning to face Dream fully, legs crossed.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, I guess you could say that.” Dream smiled nervously, visibly releasing some of the tension he had been holding. He cracked each knuckle methodically; something he often used to keep him grounded, to keep him sane and found comfort in the encouragement of Floris’s expression.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Floris’s eyes lit up, and he leant forward like gossiping teenagers at a sleepover might do “Did something happen then? Oh, I bet something happened didn’t it-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yes okay something happened.” Clay sighed playfully, but he wouldn’t meet Floris’s brown eyes. He knew if he did he would say too much.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Are you gonna say what?” He laughed but Dream’s eyes stayed fixated in his lap.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No, I don’t think I can.”</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
    <br/>
  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s okay, don’t worry about it. So how did I know? Honestly, I’m not that sure. It wasn’t that I just woke up one day and knew it was more a… long term thing I guess? It took a while for me to process my feelings, realise that I did like both guys and girls and - you know - come to terms with it and settle on the label so… yeah.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah?” Dream mumbled, looking up to see a rather deep in thought Floris.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah… although I guess the fact that you’re asking means that you’re probably not straight!” He laughed, shuffling a little closer and resting his head on Clay’s shoulder. The contact was slightly surprising but not unwelcome, and Clay rested his head atop, enjoying the comfort it brought with it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Probably.” Clay was surprised at how honest he was being with himself. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Didn’t you date Nick back in highschool though?” Floris sat up, turning to face him after he spoke.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Date? No we didn’t date! We just kissed a couple of times and cuddled every now and again and- </span>
  <em>
    <span>shit</span>
  </em>
  <span> that does sound like dating doesn’t it.” The realisation hit him rather hard. It wasn’t something he’d ever really considered.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah. Maybe you should think about that- you know what? You haven’t spoken to him in a while, have you? You should call him!” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“But I haven’t called him in like a year!” Clay exclaimed, shifting over to lie flat on the bed, his legs in Floris’s lap, “he probably hates me now.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No he doesn’t you idiot! I’m sure if you call him you will catch up and be back to how you were in no time!” Floris started to fidget with the fabric of Dream’s trouser leg, rolling it between his fingers. “Maybe that will help you figure out some stuff too.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You think so?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I know so. Think about it okay, Clay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>A week or so had passed after that, and Dream had done a lot of thinking indeed. He didn’t stray from the constant busying he had been doing before in order to occupy his brain, but he did find a good way of processing his thoughts, that being going on runs. Something between the biting cold, his aching muscles and the repetition of running the same route over and over and over really was the best solace, the best way of really thinking. But when he let his mind wander, it always settled on one thing, and he wasn’t sure if he liked it. He found himself struggling to work as his mind fantasised about soft lips on his and cold fingers gracing his cheeks. It was hard to focus when George plagued his thoughts like some sort of addiction, craving something, craving more. At least, during the runs, he didn’t need to force them away like they were dirty like they were wrong. He could actually think them through, indulge in the fantasies, let them flourish. It was on one of these runs that he thought back to his prior conversations with Floris and decided that he would call Nick after all this time.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>It took him a while to hype himself up, to get himself mentally prepared to deal with this. He’d run through every possible scenario in his head; the call didn’t go through, Nick had changed his number, he had blocked him, he didn’t want to talk- in true Clay fashion, they were admittedly rather pessimistic. But before he gave himself the time to think of yet another depressing situation which would likely become reality in a second he took a deep breath and hit the “call” button. There was a ring. And another. And another. But to his surprise, the call went through.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There was cluttering amidst the steady hum of the phone line, and what sounded like background chatter.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hello?” A voice called out hesitantly, “Clay?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh- um hi, Nick.” He responded, cursing himself for his awkwardness and wanting to hang up right there and then. “How are you doing?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m good- yeah…” he trailed off, there were murmurs in the background, “look- sorry dude but if you’re just calling to catch up could we possibly do this later? I’m kinda on a date right now.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“A date?” Clay should have stopped himself but curiosity got the better of him and it slipped out before he had the chance to stop himself.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, a date.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You got a girl then?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Nick chuckled, it was crackly across the line and Clay hadn’t quite realised how much the distance between them hurt until that point. “Not quite, I’ve been dating Karl for a year now- you know, my friend I told you about last time we called…” </span>
  <em>
    <span>It really had been a year, hadn’t it. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There was a shuffling of sorts, and then a new voice across the line. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hi, Clay! I’m Karl- Nick always says how much he misses you, you should come down and see us sometime! I’d love to meet you!” The voice was enthusiastic and sweet, it reminded him of a puppy and he smiled knowing that this guy sounded just perfect for Nick.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hi Karl!” He laughed and waited until the scuffles settled before he talked again. “Nick is that you there again?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Look dude, I’m sorry for not calling more often or anything- I really wanted to it’s just I’ve been so busy-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“-with the election and everything.” Nick cut him off with a sigh, he knew Clay wasn’t neglectful but he did curse his fucking overachieving tendencies sometimes. “Just- if you’re ever down in Florida again, let me know and I’ll come and drive to see you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“But it’s 30 hours!” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I don’t care, road trips are fun and I’m sure Karl wouldn’t mind dragging along if you don’t mind him coming- wait, our food is here, can I call you back or were you just looking for a catch up-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I just- sorry this is so dumb and you’re on a date and damn- what we had back in high school, was that more than a friendship?” Clay was surprised by quite how timid his voice was.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There was another sigh across the line. “Look, Clay. what we had in high school, well, I think that’s for you to think about by yourself. I’m guessing something’s happened that’s made you wanna call and talk about this but this- this is something you gotta do by yourself. I’ll text you later okay but I really gotta go-” And the call went silent. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <span>He sat there for 10 minutes or so just processing his emotions. Most were mildly positive; Nick didn’t hate him, he was doing well - hell - he has a boyfriend! </span>
  <em>
    <span>And</span>
  </em>
  <span> he still wants to meet up with him. But he knew he had stuff to think about. And think he did. Because every day that passed was one day closer to the State Dinner that George was due to come to and he </span>
  <em>
    <span>knew</span>
  </em>
  <span> that he needed to have his shit sorted by then.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>hello! sorry for the late chapter! for most of last week, i was working on a new fic with my friend! it's called <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29496570/chapters/72462558">Ouroboros</a> and it is a little bit darker than this, but a lot of fun! The basic premise is that George goes to visit Dream and quickly finds out about his rather murderous secret, and lots of fun ensues. We had such a great time writing it, it was for a joke competition our friend threw for cursed fanfics (which we might have taken a little seriously but we won so it's all good) and we wrote the whole thing in 5 days and so it's all done and a new chapter is coming out each day! I'm pretty proud of it so go check it out if you want and tell me you came from here too! let us know what you think! speculate as to what is coming the next day! </p><p>anyways, sorry this one is a little shorter and later than i meant it to be, i hope the new fic makes up for it</p><p>Artio &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. Chapter 12</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>He was furious with George. He was enamoured with George.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>It had been a couple of weeks since Clay spoke to Nick, and, although it was a little awkward at the start, he was pleased to have rekindled that friendship once again. His mind was still plagued with the thought of </span>
  <em>
    <span>George, </span>
  </em>
  <span>George’s soft lips, the little golden flecks in George’s eyes that you could only see up close, the soft brush of George’s fingertips on the nape of his neck. And so the only solution he could really see to this infuriating infatuation was to consult with Floris once again.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You did </span>
  <em>
    <span>what</span>
  </em>
  <span>!?” Floris practically shouted.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Shush! Someone might hear you idiot,” Clay said hurriedly, poking Floris’ arm. “Yes, I might have kissed George- well technically he kissed me but-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What- so the Prince of England just- just </span>
  <em>
    <span>kissed</span>
  </em>
  <span> you?” Floris interrupted him, eyes wide in shock. He was grinning as Clay would have expected but there was something else, something… he couldn’t place behind his eyes also. Clay couldn’t bring himself to think about it though.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Well- yeah sort of?! I mean we’d kinda been joking around all evening - not that I thought any of it was serious - but then I kissed this actress at New Year’s for a dare and he just- like- disappeared? And then I went to find him and then he was mad at me and then he kissed me and then ran off-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Was it a </span>
  <em>
    <span>good</span>
  </em>
  <span> kiss at least?” Floris rolled his eyes mischievously, placing his hand on Clay’s forearm.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Floris!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Well- was it?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Clay groaned, his cheeks burning hot red, “Yes, it was a good kiss, okay? It was- it was soft, and warm- and- and- why else would I have been fucking obsessing over it since it happened-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The grip on his forearm tightened and Floris leaned a little closer, “Was it just a peck- or with tongue- or-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh my </span>
  <em>
    <span>gosh</span>
  </em>
  <span>! I’m going to go talk to Niki in a second-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Wait, no, don’t leave! I’m done!” Floris hurriedly said, and Clay just chuckled, giving him a playful shove.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
    <br/>
  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you. He hasn’t texted me since though, what do I do?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Maybe he’s just nervous-” Floris’s expression suddenly dropped, and he pulled away from Clay for a second.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Wait, weren’t there all those photos of the Prince kissing that girl yesterday?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Huh?” Clay’s excitement was lost and he watched impatiently as Floris grabbed his phone and tapped at it for a few seconds before turning the screen to face Clay. Indeed there was a photo of George in a cafe on a date with a brunette model, George holding the door open for the model, even George kissing the model and his heart sunk. “Oh.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Now we’re thinking about it, he does always seem to have been photographed with different girls,” Floris added, his hand on Clay’s shoulder in an attempt to comfort. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That is true,” Clay mumbled, dejected. “It just- it felt like it </span>
  <em>
    <span>meant </span>
  </em>
  <span>something, you know? And- and before he kept on telling me I was clueless or something - which I normally am - so that’s gotta mean something, right? He was speaking like he wanted me,” Clay paused for a second, “He was </span>
  <em>
    <span>kissing</span>
  </em>
  <span> like he wanted me,” He added bashfully, feeling a hot flush rising once again, “and- and I’m always photographed with different girls, aren’t I? All the papers had photos of me and that actress after New Years and, yeah, I guess I don’t kiss many of my dates but they always think I’m dating someone and- and-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Take a breath, Clay,” Floris laughed, and Clay’s rambles halted. He gave himself another moment to gather his jumbled train of thought into a coherent sentence once again, took a deep breath, and started speaking once again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>“I guess what I’m trying to say is; would it be so far-fetched to think that he might maybe want to kiss me again?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I mean, it’s possible that he’s bisexual? I don’t think he’s ever said anything about that though, nor have there been records of him having relations with guys but I guess maybe he’s closeted? Besides, who wouldn’t love you?” Floris teased, but there was a strange truth behind the words. It made Clay smile.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Clay sighed, burying his head in his hands and resting his head on Floris’ bony shoulder, “What do I do, Flo?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I would say go after him, to be honest! Worst thing that happens is you piss off a member of the royal family, and then they all hate us and America-” Floris looked up to see Clay’s wide eyes with shock and realised perhaps he wasn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>quite</span>
  </em>
  <span> sarcastic enough. “Clay. I’m joking! The worst case scenario? He was drunk last time, apologises for leading you on, you’ve learned something new about yourself! Best case scenario? I don’t think I need to spell it out for you!” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Clay drew in a deep breath. “Alright.”</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>The state dinner was a few days later. Despite the talk with Floris having eased some of his fears, it had also raised some others and he was well and truly pissed at George. How </span>
  <em>
    <span>dare </span>
  </em>
  <span>he kiss Clay so nicely, fuck with his feelings and then go off with a girl and act all coupley to the press. How </span>
  <em>
    <span>dare </span>
  </em>
  <span>he. Yet still, his mind was consumed with George as he put on his suit, as he was meant to be listening to the briefing before the event, as he was welcoming guests at the door.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh- hello, Clayton,” George mumbled with a half-arsed smile and Clay didn’t know what he was expecting, but it certainly wasn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He’d spent all day flitting between despising George and wanting to make out with him, tossing words over in his head, fixing his tie for the fifteenth time and all he got from George is an awkward “</span>
  <em>
    <span>hello”?</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p> </p><p><span>“Hi, George.” He sighed bitterly, and watched as the Brit just walked off. Niki had to elbow him in the side at least six times during the next fifteen monotonous minutes of greetings because now </span><em><span>everything </span></em><span>had</span> <span>become a distraction, an excuse for his mind to wander back to the topic he had only spent every second of every day thinking about since New Years.   And even though he was sure he would grow to hate the constant mental recycle, he was still enamoured in it, every other thought worrying about whether George was alright, whether he had changed his mind, if he wasn’t interested anymore, why he brushed him off, why he had ignored him for a month, why he had kissed him like </span><em><span>that</span></em><span>. </span></p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The dinner was just as painful, literally and figuratively (Niki’s kicks under the table were going to leave bruises for sure) and his hunger had all but disappeared, so he forced himself to swallow down the food whilst his mind was racing. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know what is going on with you right now, but you gotta sort it out or people are gonna notice that you’re off.” Niki hissed to him as the dessert plates were cleared and people started to stir from their seats. Clay just nodded in response, taking a deep breath before stumbling over to where the Prince was sat.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hi- um George, could I have a quick word with you?” He asked, standing as still as he could, trembling hands firmly in his trouser pockets. Everything was about to either go very </span>
  <em>
    <span>right</span>
  </em>
  <span> or very </span>
  <em>
    <span>wrong</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>George looked up at him with confusion, “Of course?” Though all indications of his tone, however hidden under layers of etiquette classes, said he would rather </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“In private.” He clarified curtly, and George simply nodded.  Clay grabbed his hand before he had the chance to protest, pulling the pair of them into one of the empty nearby offices and locking the door behind them.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They were silent for a second, trying to gauge the other’s reactions through their default polite smiles, a </span>
  <em>
    <span>safe </span>
  </em>
  <span>distance between them.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Clay decided to speak first, “What the </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>George sighed with an expression which Clay had come to learn meant that he was trying his best to suppress any emotion, it was chillingly diplomatic. He leaned against the cherrywood desk and watched his knuckles go white as he clung to the edge, clung to any excuse to avert his eyes. “Look, Clay, I am </span>
  <em>
    <span>so</span>
  </em>
  <span> sorry,”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re… sorry?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I shouldn’t have kissed you, and I shouldn’t have just walked off... and I shouldn’t have ignored you afterwards either,” George was speaking fast, voice passionate, eyes everywhere but Clay, who was stood frozen, shell shocked, “I just- I don’t know how else to apologise other than I shouldn’t have put you in that position, it’s definitely not something I should have done and-” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When Clay snapped back into reality, he did the first thing that came to mind. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Which, of course, was to kiss George again.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span> It was different this time, it was passionate, needy, rough; far from the tentative and soft one that they had shared bathed in the midnight moonlight. He was furious with George. He was enamoured with George. His hands tangled in George’s hair, tugging at it slightly and pulling him closer so that their bodies were flush and he could feel the heat through all those inconvenient layers of clothes, and George’s hands were fisted in his blazer lapels. All-too-soon, George moved back a little, gasping for breath and grinning wildly.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“So,” George said, his gaze fixed on Dream’s but his face showing a sort of vulnerability.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“So,” Clay repeated, heaving breaths. “What about that girl? I thought- I thought you kissed me and then regretted it or something-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I thought you hated me, thought you’d never wanna talk to me again - </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck</span>
  </em>
  <span> - I thought you were </span>
  <em>
    <span>straight.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m… I’m still working that bit out but don’t flatter yourself, I still hate you just as much.” He chuckled softly. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Sure you do,” George laughed, “I’m gay, though. Very, very gay. That whole girl thing was because my family- well- they wouldn’t exactly be ecstatic if people knew. So, once a month or so I pretend to like girls so that the press can get their photos and I can keep up my perfect straight-prince image. But I meant that kiss back on New Year’s, that was different… as was this,”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Clay pulled George into a loose hug, resting his chin in brunet hair, “We should probably go back out there before we miss the presentation and people start to wonder what we’ve been ‘talking’ about.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I guess so.” George responded, pulling back only to rise up on his tiptoes, leaning in and pressing a kiss to Clay’s lips, much softer this time. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You can come up to my room when this is all done- if you want to, of course!” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I think I’ve made it pretty clear that I want to.” George teased him, running fingers through his hair in an attempt to tame it, “10:15?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Sure, 10:15. It’s the second room on the left upstairs- ask Darryl or someone if you get lost.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>George laughed, “See you then.” and turned to leave, stopping in the doorway, “you might wanna wait a second so it’s a little less obvious- also fix your suit!” And with that, he was gone. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <span>Clay did indeed take a second, needing it to comprehend what the hell had just happened, and then attempting to make it a </span>
  <em>
    <span>little</span>
  </em>
  <span> less obvious that he had just been making out with the Prince of England, fixing his tie which had been horribly askew and smoothing down his now-crumpled shirt. It was hard to suppress the grin on his face when he finally wove his way back into the crowd. Similar to the dinner, he couldn’t focus on the speeches either, but at least it was due to another reason. He tried to think about the words being said but his mind would protest, drifting back to the prince, what they had done, what they were </span>
  <em>
    <span>going to do. </span>
  </em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Sorry this, once again, took a while, I've been busy, once again, with schoolwork and <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29496570/chapters/72462558">Ouroboros</a> (a few people asked for an epilogue and so an epilogue we are writing. Writing it made me tear up whilst writing for the first time, it is very sad but I think it's pretty good ;)) </p><p>I'm gonna try and stick to a schedule of new chapter every Friday/Saturday depending on when I get it done, for the next few weeks! I'm in my last year of school and yeah exams are very much imminent! </p><p>Hope everyone has been staying happy and healthy<br/>Artio &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0014"><h2>14. Chapter 13</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>“Fuck, George.” Clay sighed, taking in the paradisaical sight before him; diaphanous skin glowing red, velvety lips swollen, beguiling brown eyes blown wide. It truly was ethereal. He truly was ethereal. </p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>so uhmmm... long time no see i guess?</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Despite only being an hour or so, it felt like it had been years before he was released from the tight grasp that was First Son Responsibilities and once he was finally finished with all the necessary goodbyes the speed at which he retreated to his room was rather amusing (he might have almost tripped up the stairs. maybe.). So, sporting a stair-shaped mark on his knee which was sure to become an ugly bruise the next day and a horribly nervous smile he fidgeted between waiting on the sofa in his room. And the bed. And standing up. In his defense, clandestine hook-ups with foreign princes weren’t exactly something he was experienced in, and Clay did </span>
  <em>
    <span>not </span>
  </em>
  <span>enjoy being unprepared. But he finally settled on the couch, sitting uncomfortably straight, legs pressed together and back decidedly not rested on the plush cushions behind him. He pulled out his phone, flicking between scrolling through Instagram, his Twitter timeline, his schedule, Instagram again and when the little number at the top of his screen changed to 10:13, there was a knock at his door.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Clay?” A tentative voice came from the other side, a voice that was soft, uneasy, with a British lilt; unequivocally George. Clay wasn’t sure whether he was meant to tell him to come in, or open the door for him, he </span>
  <em>
    <span>was </span>
  </em>
  <span>royalty, not that Clay dwelled on that part any longer. He opted for the former, pulling it open and standing behind it, almost peeking out as if it were a shield, before slamming it shut, remembering that if anyone was coming along the corridor at this point in time they would have an interesting time explaining why the Prince of England was in his bedroom.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You look like you’re about to bow or something,” George commented with a playful smirk and only then did Clay notice all of the tension he had been holding in his shoulders.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Clay rolled his eyes, “Yeah, you wish. D’you find my room okay?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I did had to ask Darryl for some help,” George admitted with a chuckle,</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Well, you still got here 2 minutes early! Come, let’s sit on the couch,” Clay grabbed his hand, tugging it harshly as he dragged George, who was stumbling behind him until they were sitting side by side on the plush grey sofa. His head was starting to spin; Clay hated not having a plan and here he was, the Prince of England by his side after he spontaneously invited him back to his room without really thinking of how to go about what was implicitly said to happen after. “So,” he started awkwardly, picking at a hangnail and watching George’s face fall into a smirk yet again.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“‘So’ what? I didn’t come here to talk all night,” George rolled his eyes, and Clay felt his cheeks burn hot, flaming red. He wasn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>just</span>
  </em>
  <span> under-prepared for this; he hadn’t a clue what to do - It’s not like there’s a ‘How to Seduce a Prince and Not Fuck Up International Relations: For Dummies’ is there? (and if there was, he would have surely read it cover-to-cover at least 10 times before this moment. Studying was admittedly a skill he had down to a T. so what if he would use that to his advantage?) George’s smirk fell for a second, but Clay’s gaze had long been averted from him, it lay heavy in his lap as he attempted to think but all he got out were mangled sentences, incoherent phrases which all just ended up with </span>
  <em>
    <span>George</span>
  </em>
  <span>. “That was a joke- we don’t have to do anything you don’t want to! I’m perfectly happy just talking all night if you want!” George added quickly, placing a gentle hand onto Clay’s thigh, which prompted him to look up into cocoa eyes with a gaze far too soft for the thoughts Clay had been having.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Shit- no that’s not- fuck. I don’t want to talk all night - although I wouldn’t mind it just not now that’s not what I was-” Clay’s rambles ceased just long enough for him to draw in a deep breath “You know what? Fuck it.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Actions speak louder than words, or so they say. So when the words are failing, what better option did Clay have except to show George what he meant?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Before George even had a moment to process the amalgamation of broken sentences that had just spewed, Clay’s lips were on his. It was slower than both of the previous times, languid and soft, and Clay basked in the feeling. He trailed a hand up George’s sides, the pair pulling apart for just a second as George broke into giggles.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re ticklish?” Clay scoffed playfully, experimentally brushing his hands up and down the sides of his shirt, only able to imagine what it would look like without the fabric so rudely obscuring his view.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I hate you-” George managed between stifled laughs, “stop it!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Stohp it!” Clay mocked his accent quite awfully, the o’s far too round, the inflections not quite right, and this prompted yet another eye roll.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>George grabbed the offending hand, holding it with a vice-like grip between them as the other snaked up to interlock in blond strands used as leverage to pull their faces mere centimetres apart. “Shut up and kiss me again.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Clay would never be one to deny George such a request. He closed the gap between them once more, pressing their lips firmly together. The kiss was bruising this time, firm, passionate, lips grappling with lips and teeth clashing but neither cared enough to cringe at it. Clay yanked his hand free from George’s grip, running his hands up the little knobs of his spine before firmly playing a splayed hand on his upper back and using it to move George even closer to him, so that he was now fully straddling Clay, sat firmly in his lap.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He groaned as George tightened the grip in his hair tugging slightly, but only enough to cause a warm glow of pleasurable pain. George pulled back for a second, almost long enough for Clay to protest but before he had the chance to, the hand tightened again, tilting his head back enough to expose the tanned expanse of soft skin that was his neck and hastily pressing feather-light kisses along his jawline. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“George,” He sighed between laboured breaths, his eyes rolling back in pleasure as the kisses got stronger. “Don’t leave- </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck-</span>
  </em>
  <span> don’t leave marks,”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They moved from his jawline to the side of his neck, travelling higher until soft lips hovered over his ear, and he could hear George’s rushed breaths, feel them caress his cheek. “Do you really think I’m that stupid?” George whispered, the intimacy of their proximity sending shivers down Clay’s neck. He decided in that moment that he loved George’s voice most when it was like that; whispered, raw with lust, </span>
  <em>
    <span>just for him</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>George brought his lips back to Clay’s and soon they had become bolder. Shirts were tugged from their confinement tucked into trousers and peripatetic hands roamed what was hiding underneath. They were restless, travelling and travelling as though every inch of his chest just had to be touched, and it was only when those same hands stopped, hesitantly poised over the collar of Clay’s shirt, that Clay pulled away and finally took a second to think.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Fuck, George</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” Clay sighed, taking in the paradisaical sight before him; diaphanous skin glowing red, velvety lips swollen, beguiling brown eyes blown wide. It truly was ethereal. </span>
  <em>
    <span>He </span>
  </em>
  <span>truly was ethereal. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Is this okay?” George asked gently, eyes flitting between Clay’s gaze and where his hands remained, hardly an inch away from the top pearlescent button and Clay could have just melted at the tenderness of his words.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’ve never done this before- like with a guy,” Clay admitted bashfully, his gaze dropping only for a second before George’s hand was up by his chin, forcing it back up again. For a second he let himself get lost in the feeling of the pad of George’s thumb rubbing soft circles on his chin.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“We don’t have to do anything, okay?” George reassured him, “We can just do this- or- or we can stop, or-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No, I want to.” Clay quickly cut him off, offering a nervous smile.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re sure?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Clay nodded quickly, “I’m sure.” he reassured him, subtly leaning into the gentle touch.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Okay. We can take things slow, alright?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Words of agreement were quickly mumbled; normally Clay would be the first to roll his eyes and scoff at someone suggesting something such as slowing down for him but he was only grateful. He wanted for it to be good, not just for him, but also for George. He wasn’t sure if it was his lust-clouded thoughts talking or perhaps something more… he didn’t dwell on it either way. After one more nod of affirmation, George started to fiddle with the top button, chuckling under his breath as he struggled slightly, a noise which was quickly swallowed by Clay’s mouth on his, kissing slowly once more. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Before Clay even knew it, half of their clothes were strewn carelessly on the ground. Who cares if you crumple a thousand dollar suit when you have someone worth infinitely more sat firmly in your lap, both literally and figuratively. He had thought the kissing was good before but being able to see all of him, to touch all of him - it was so much better. He revelled in the freedom to leave marks in the places no-one else could see, gossamer skin painted with red, only barely unbroken. </span>
</p><p>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>Without a word, Clay pulled back for a second, marvelling at the masterpiece he had created. If he had his way he would frame it, hang the mental image high in a museum meant solely for it; anything else would simply be dull in comparison. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He pulled the shorter man into his arms, standing up with only a slight wobble as his hands came to rest under Geoge’s thighs. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What are you doing!” George laughed, wrapping his arms tightly around Clay’s neck as he stumbled across the room.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“We’re not doing- doing it on the couch, you idiot!” Clay snickered as he loosened his grip, letting George fall onto the mattress below him. George only rolled his eyes, tugging Clay towards him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Clay doesn’t think he’ll ever forget the time they shared together that night. It was awkward and bumpy and sure as hell not sexy for at least half of it but their sole focus was on pleasing the other. Each kiss was filled with gentle encouragement, each whisper, words of praise and as they achieved ecstasy it was only the other’s name that they were sighing.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That was fun,” Clay whispered teasingly into George’s hair, the words slurred with sleepiness, running his hands across the expanse of George’s back and carefully working out any knots he came across.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“‘That was fun?’ We just gave each other head and you’re saying ‘that was fun’?” George groaned into the crook of Clay’s neck, punctuating the occasional word with a soft kiss.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Fuck you,” was all Clay could manage back, but it held no malice as he held George impossibly closer. It was strange, he thought. None of his past hookups had ever wanted to be so intimate afterwards. It was always embarrassed excuses as clothes were hastily strewn on and they were both out the door soon after. It wasn’t unwelcome though. In fact, quite the opposite, although he wasn’t sure if he was keen on the novel feeling it brought him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That’s for next time,” George chuckled, before pausing, “I should probably go before we fall asleep.” He added, despite not making any movement to get up whatsoever. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You probably should,” Clay agreed, giving himself one more second to squeeze George impossibly tighter before letting him go completely, pushing himself up to sitting. “Come on, otherwise people are gonna see you coming out of my room this morning and wonder why,” Clay muttered, and the words almost wounded him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re right,” George reluctantly said as he tugged on his suit once again, attempting to make it look a little less dishevelled than it already did. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Aren’t I always?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh don’t you get started,” George derided him, straightening his tie. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The pair weren’t exactly sure how they should say goodbye. On one hand, it was his mortal-enemy-turned-somewhat-friend who is also a literal prince and might be a stuck up prick maybe. On the other hand, he had just done some not-so-prince-like things to Clay, and he was admittedly very good at it too.</span>
</p><p><br/>
<span>“Oh for God’s sake-” George sighed before pulling Clay into a final kiss. He could feel George smiling into it, and he couldn’t help but to smile back, cupping George’s cheek with the gentlest of touches. After they pulled apart for a second he chased George’s lips, pressing a final kiss to them before bidding him farewell and it took Clay a good minute to confirm that that had </span>
  <em>
    <span>actually</span>
  </em>
  <span> just happened. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>okay long time no see was an exaggeration but still, sorry for missing 2 weeks! unfortunately i am in the final year of school so lots of fun exams for me! yay! (/s) sadly this means that my upload schedule is likely to be patchy over the next 2 months, although the first one should be more-or-less fine but once my exams are over i will make up for it i promise! i will have so much more time to write so maybe 2/3 chapters a week like i initially intended to do hehe :)</p><p>Hope you have all been fine in my (short) absence</p><p>go and check out the <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29496570/chapters/72462558">Ouroboros</a> epilogue if you haven't already,</p><p>Arti :D</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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